


Barriga Llena, Corazón Contento.

by ConniptionCrazy



Category: Bleach
Genre: Cats, Established Relationship, GrimmIchi - Freeform, M/M, Memory Loss, Yeah I'm still a part of this fandom, are yokai a tag?, grimmjow wears a poncho, grimmjow's gonna get a lot of whump, hurt grimmjow, ichigrimm, it's k tho Ichigo takes care of him, more relationships and characters to be added later, that's a trope in this fic, this is a developing story, yokai.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-02-01 23:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12714753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConniptionCrazy/pseuds/ConniptionCrazy
Summary: “And if you do become a Plus? Say you keep all of your memories, everything?” Ichigo prompted.“Then I’ll still be strong. I’ll be able to become a Shinigami myself. If you become Captain, I can join your division, or whatever they are. I’ll be your Segundo.” Grimmjow gave him a toothy grin, one that Ichigo remembered very, very well. “It’s a step up from Sexta, after all.”





	1. Descanso

**Author's Note:**

> This is a spiritual successor to a fic that has been written over many years. It decided to take a turn, and I'm just following through. It finally earned the right to move from my ff.net account to this one.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who followed it this far.

After everything, Ichigo tries to enjoy the peace and quiet. Tries to catch up on everything he missed. It turns out it’s summer back home, and so he has nothing to fill his days _except_ enjoying the peace and quiet. He and his friends fought so hard to achieve it, after all.

His friends and… Grimmjow. Whatever they are to each other now.

Grimmjow had not returned with the Shinigami after the battle. He’d been gravely wounded, and said returning to Hueco Mundo would be better. He hadn’t even really said goodbye. Just one look over his shoulder after tearing open a Garganta, and that was it. Ichigo didn’t blame him. He hadn’t really known what to say, either.

It wasn’t every night, but Ichigo did make it a point to take late-night walks to the park. Just on the off-chance. But there was never a trace of Grimmjow’s reiatsu, never a hint that he was there or had ever stopped there on his way to somewhere else.

The peace and quiet was great. He was finally able to spend time with Chad and Orihime and Uryuu just like they always should have—as friends. As stupid teenagers looking for thrills and laughter, and finding more than they could have ever asked for. There was one memorable Tuesday night that found them running from mall security because Uryuu was just too easy to tease, and of course the situation blew up like it always did, in the best way. Ichigo remembered grabbing Orihime’s hand in his and tugging her along, Chad at his other side, and Uryuu bringing up the back. He remembered bursting out of the mall’s doors, gasping for breath and laughing, just laughing.

Orihime was nice. Maybe not nice, actually— _kind_ was the better word. Ichigo knew the way she looked at him. She was hardly subtle about it. He didn’t know how to tell her no. How do you tell one of your closest friends that not only do you not like her the way she likes you, but you’re waiting for an undead monster to give you a sign that he’s still alive, and _that’s_ why you won’t have a relationship with her?

Ichigo supposed he could just say it like that, and damn the consequences, but Orihime deserved better.

Finally, he couldn’t stand it. Summer break was only six weeks. They had returned from fighting in the middle of the second week. There were only two weeks left of break, and Grimmjow hadn’t been in contact at all. That was his right, of course, he was at least the equivalent of a competent adult. Point was, he could make his own decisions.

So why did Ichigo feel like something was terribly, terribly wrong?

He slept on the feeling, turning it over in his mind. In the morning, he could only come to the conclusion that it was a gut feeling. If he visited Hueco Mundo and nothing was wrong, then he could leave and call himself an idiot and everything would be fine. But if he visited and something was going on—maybe Grimmjow would appreciate a helping hand.

Or maybe not. It was hard to tell.

So this found Ichigo leaving his body once more, and traveling to Hueco Mundo, alone. He didn’t want to bother his friends on nothing but a hunch.

It looked the same as ever. Shifting white sands, moon in the sky. The occasional dead tree. Ichigo frowned to himself and took off in what he was pretty sure was the direction of Las Noches. It was probably going to be a good place to start, at least.

He tried not to think during his journey, about what might be happening. Because, truthfully, it might not be happening at all.

At last, Las Noches loomed before him, and Ichigo entered. It had not been repaired since all of the fighting when they were rescuing Orihime, and while some wings of the fortress seemed to be entirely untouched, others were littered with rubble that Ichigo had to pick his way around. He made himself go slowly, so as not to be taken by surprise, and to pick up any indication however small of Grimmjow’s presence.

He peeked into every room he passed, but most were bare. That, or their function was long forgotten. Some were filled with clothes. Others, beds. Some only had tables and chairs. Ichigo passed them all by. Working his way slowly towards the center of the fortress, he eventually came on a huge room- Aizen’s old throne room, he supposed. Only there was someone sitting on the dias.

“Lose something?”

Ichigo blinked blankly up at her. Harribel seemed casual, almost unconcerned about his presence. She sat on Aizen’s throne like it had always been hers.

“Is Grimmjow here?”

Harribel gave him a long, searching look. Finally, she blinked and looked away with a sigh through her nose.

“No, Shinigami. Grimmjow is not here.” She stood, apparently with some difficulty. Ichigo recalled she had been captured by Ywach himself. Captured, but not killed. She must still be recovering. “He went out a fortnight ago and has not returned.”

She stepped deliberately down from the dais, approaching Ichigo slowly. He wondered if he should prepare himself for a fight, but she didn’t look like she was in a fighting mood.

“Do you know where he went?” It looked more and more like his gut feeling was right, and Ichigo tried to stop the panic rising up in his chest.

“No. And he could be anywhere by now.” Harribel reminded him. “But I can tell you where he might have gone.”

Ichigo tried, very hard, to remain calm.

“Hunting is usually better around caves and large dunes. Weak Hollows like the shelter, you see. The nearest place is in that direction—” She pointed directly to her left. “—If you travel as fast as one of us when you first faced us, it should take you about a minute.”

If she said anything else, Ichigo didn’t hear it. He couldn’t have, because he was already outside Las Noches and on his way, as fast as he could while keeping an eye out for a place like Harribel had described.

It was not difficult to miss. A large gnarled tree next to a huge sand dune. A dune which had one gaping hole at the base. Ichigo shunpo’d to the entrance, casting out his awareness, trying to feel for _something_.

He almost missed it. He almost left. But there, deep down in the bowels of the cave, there was a flicker of reiatsu. Like a candle flame. A very familiar candle flame.

Ichigo unsheathed Zangetsu and held him at the ready, stepping into the cave.

-=-

Grimmjow came to awareness in parts. First, he knew he was awake. Then, he knew he had all his limbs. That was good, he definitely considered that a win. But there was pain—from where? He hurriedly began to take stock, checking himself over while trying to move as little as possible. There was some wound high on his forehead, and dried blood crusting the left side of his face. His left arm also wasn’t working properly—his shoulder felt like it was on fire. His right knee was being stabbed, sharply and consistently. So, not actually being stabbed, but a wound instead.

He groaned and tried to roll over. He managed it, but it was harder than he’d expected. First, there was a gag in his mouth. Some dirty cloth, it seemed, possibly once part of his own wardrobe at one time. Second, his hands were tied in front of him, so tightly that he could hardly feel his fingers. He swallowed a whine of confusion and pain and tried to look around.

There was a fire, and shapes of Hollows dancing on the walls. Not Arrancar, possibly Adjuchas. He’d rolled to face the wall, like an idiot. It was a risk to let them know he was awake, but Grimmjow threw out his reiatsu anyway, searching. Were there any more of them? Was Harribel nearby?

No, there were no more of them. Nor was Harribel here. But there was someone—someone masking their reiatsu. Grimmjow couldn’t feel them, no, but he could scent them, and the fresh air they carried into the cave with them. He held back a groan and closed his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose. His legs were not bound, but Grimmjow couldn’t imagine getting up. It wasn’t the pain, Grimmjow was very accustomed to pain. It was that his head had begun to spin so that he wasn’t sure exactly which direction _was_ up. Safer to stay on the ground until he got his bearings.

He was aware, distantly, of some movement and grunting. Then,

“He’s awake.” A deep voice, the owner of which sounded dumb as a box of rocks. Grimmjow hoped he was using that phrase right—like that was the worst of his problems.

“Give him more of that stuff, hurry!” A higher-pitched voice, and scratchy-sounding.

More shuffling.

Brain catching up with what was happening, Grimmjow began to thrash wildly, struggling to get his feet underneath himself. He cursed, muffled by the gag, and screamed in fury when he felt a hand close around his throat. There was a sharp pinch under his jaw, and then he was released.

He lay there, breathing harshly. He was now turned to see the rest of the cave, and his gaze darted between his captors as he fought to catch his breath. One was tall, only just shy of being Menos height, and its limbs were as thin as literal sticks. Its mask made up for the lack of mass, being absolutely huge. The size of a human car. The other was short and squat, and had a tongue that it couldn’t seem to keep stuffed in its own mouth. There was a third that Grimmjow suspected was the leader, sitting on the other side of the cave beyond a small campfire. It was shaped like a bird, and its mask gleamed like bone in the light.

He could feel something happening, deep in his gut. A burning sensation. Grimmjow twisted, now preoccupied with this new thing. He’d ask what they’d done to him, but he spotted the source of the pinch and knew. Several of Szayel’s syringes lay abandoned on the floor. This must not be the first time they injected him, but with fuck knew what. Szayel had always been working on something, more often than not having the results be labeled as a failure. The burning was spreading, out into his limbs and up his throat. It consumed all other feeling, all other perception as it went. Grimmjow could no longer feel the rough stone floor, or the grit of sand in his clothes. Only the burning.

They must have raided the failures, because anything of use had been destroyed. Grimmjow had seen personally to that. He didn’t understand Szayel’s experiments, but he understood that in the wrong hands they’d be devastating, and he didn’t want that weird-ass Shinigami Captain to get ahold of any of it. There was something painful, too, about having a comrade’s weapon used against him after that comrade no longer had a say in the matter. Grimmjow wouldn’t say he’d been close to Szayel in any way, and the pain was not significant, really, but it was still something curious his mind turned over and over as the burning crept up his cheeks, into his eyes, into his brain.

Grimmjow screamed.

-=-

Ichigo did not arrive in the chamber unnoticed. He had to stop and take stock of the situation. Three Hollows besides Grimmjow, a small campfire. One of the Hollows was holding Grimmjow and a syringe, looking at Ichigo with fear. It was less the expression, mostly because Hollows as a general rule lacked expressions, but more the feeling of the creature’s reiatsu.

“Let me leave here with him, and I’ll leave you with your lives.” Ichigo held out the hand that wasn’t holding Zangetsu, palm up and open.

“We have no reason to trust that.” The Hollow shaped like a bird hopped forward, beak clicking.

“I have no reason to trust you.” Ichigo said calmly.

Grimmjow was writhing desperately, but he didn’t seem to be in control of his own limbs, really. Whatever was in that syringe, Ichigo could see empty ones scattered all around, maybe ten of them. Things started to make sense. These Hollows weren’t particularly strong, they’d simply somehow gotten the drop on Grimmjow.

“Just let him go.” Ichigo said again.

The bird Hollow clicked its beak thoughtfully, assessing Ichigo. Ichigo tried to be patient and ignore how Grimmjow was screaming when everything in him was demanding he just go grab him. He was reluctant to engage in more killing, he had to at least give these guys a chance.

The bird finally nodded and hopped back, correctly assessing Ichigo’s power.

“Take him.”

The Hollow holding Grimmjow abruptly let him go and stepped away, and the trio cleared to one side of the cavern, well out of Ichigo’s way. Ichigo shunpo’d to Grimmjow’s side immediately, sheathing Zangetsu and putting an arm around Grimmjow’s shoulders to lever him up.

“Grimmjow?” He tried softly, doing his best to clean away the clotted blood from the Arrancar’s face. The gag, he should remove the gag—

Grimmjow opened his eyes, and Ichigo was struck once more with the electric blue he’d gotten so used to. Usually those eyes were shielded, either showing nothing at all or showing only annoyance or anger. Now, though, Grimmjow was unguarded, and Ichigo still couldn’t read the emotion he was seeing there.

Finally, Ichigo’s fingers found the knot on the gag and loosened it enough that it fell away easily. There was still cloth stuffed in Grimmjow’s mouth, so Ichigo pulled that out as well. Grimmjow worked his jaw in silence, smacking his lips as he tried to get moisture back. Finally, he spoke.

“I’m sorry, Ichigo.” Ichigo was surprised enough that he had to give Grimmjow’s body a long, searching look. He was still twitching with the after effects of the drug, whatever it was. His words must be the same. Grimmjow never apologized. It just wasn’t a thing.

“What do you mean, you’re sorry?” Ichigo smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way, trying to mask his worry.

“I was… weak.” Grimmjow looked like he was going to be sick.

Before Ichigo could reply, Grimmjow had twisted away from him and vomited. There wasn’t much that came up, only a clear fluid that stank. But it was a familiar smell, one Ichigo remembered from some particularly hard nights in the clinic. It was bile. There was nothing in Grimmjow’s stomach, nothing at all.

Ichigo swallowed and steeled himself. This was going to be hard.

-=-

Grimmjow coughed and swallowed, rolling back onto his back and forgetting that that meant also rolling back into Ichigo. He forced himself to meet Ichigo’s eyes, because he wasn’t a coward. He’d take this as standing up as he could.

“I’m sorry.” He repeated softly, unable to stop himself from shaking. He couldn’t tell if it was the drug or the fear. He didn’t know if the other Hollows were still here, he couldn’t spare them a thought, but he knew that if they were still present he didn’t want them to hear a damn thing. “Please give me another chance.”

Grimmjow was not one to beg, from anyone. But Ichigo had shown him time and again that he wasn’t just anyone. They had—they were—Grimmjow was pretty sure that what they had was important to humans, too. He’d certainly never felt the same sort of things for another Hollow, but he’d heard of it happening before. Of two Hollows of similar power forming a sort of partnership. Staying together, fighting for one another. He hadn’t known much about it, but then he’d investigated Szayel’s workshop.

In the aforementioned Purge of Szayel’s Dangerous Things, Grimmjow hadn’t been able to help it. The urge to snoop was just too strong. Getting passed Szayel’s defenses was fun—maybe he’d been hoping that he’d uncover something that would lead him to more. What he found instead were tomes and journals of research, all filled by Szayel himself, and all in some kind of cipher. He’d certainly been paranoid, but applying enough time and determination, Grimmjow had been able to crack it.

He must have liked puzzles, in some other life. There was an inherent enjoyment he found he had of them. Szayel hadn’t made it easy. He didn’t use any small words like ‘a’ or ‘the’ or ‘it’ to give Grimmjow any hints. It had been slow going, at first, but the more Grimmjow got used to Szayel’s method, the more he’d been able to read.

Szayel had been researching and experimenting with the bond, wondering if he could make stronger minions for himself, or perhaps wondering if he should approach another one of the Espada with a proposal in order to make them both stronger. He’d eventually dismissed the idea, it seemed, because it was not in a Hollow’s nature to form any sort of bond. It was miracle enough that Aizen had managed to rope together so much volatile power in the first place. No, the bond had to come from something else, something he hadn’t been able to or had no interest in pinpointing before his death.

Grimmjow didn’t think he’d been overstepping any bounds in coming to the conclusion that he and Ichigo shared such a bond. After all, there was a small amount of Hollow in Ichigo. Perhaps just enough. The bond wasn’t sealed like Szayel’s notes said it should be, whatever that meant, but Grimmjow could feel that it _could_ be. Ichigo was a worthy bondmate, and Grimmjow had put a lot of thought into what ruling alone might mean.

He’d spent a lot of time, sitting on a table in Szayel’s dark lab, tattered journal in his hands. Grimmjow had never thought himself a sentimental type, but he couldn’t deny that there was something there, inside of him. Something that made him ache, vaguely, when he thought of his Fraccion. Something that made him lose his breath when he thought of Ichigo. Something that made him start to think that winning was great and always had been, but returning alive meant nothing if you had no one and nowhere to return to.

And now, here he was, proving that he was weak. These Hollows were nothing compared to him, and still he’d let them get this far. If Ichigo never came, they would have killed him, and that would have been the end of the line for him. Grimmjow had kept his scars for this exact reason, both Ichigo’s and Nnoitra’s. He couldn’t afford to underestimate anyone, nor be taken by surprise. And still, it had happened again.

He was weak. The thought had continued to ring through his mind, and at first there was rage to accompany it. Now, however, there was something like fear. If he was weak, would Ichigo lose interest in him? There were certain things Grimmjow could handle and certain things he couldn’t. For example, he could handle losing Ichigo’s touch. He knew he could survive that. But if Ichigo simply forgot about him…

To be a Hollow meant to hunger. There was a void to be filled. Grimmjow had once, as an Adjuchas, thought the solution would be to rule. To be at the top would be to fill the void. As an Arrancar, Grimmjow had learned the void would never be filled. Not by anything. He’d come to accept that. And then Ichigo came along, bringing hope with him. It was something Grimmjow had once thought of with a sneer of disgust or a scoff.

But now, looking up at Ichigo’s concerned eyes, Grimmjow found he was helpless. There was so much to say, and yet only one thing kept coming to his mind.

“Please, give me another chance.” He would cling to hope with everything he had. He didn’t have any other choice.

“Grimmjow, what are you talking about?” Ichigo was working on his bonds furiously, trying not to hurt him, and Grimmjow almost smiled. Since when did someone like Grimmjow warrant such care?

“I messed up. It won’t—I’m not weak. I’m not.”

“I know you’re not.” Ichigo didn’t sound mocking, simply matter-of-fact.

“Does that mean…? Be clear with me, Shinigami, I can’t—not right now.”

“Grimmjow. There is no second chance to give.” Ichigo sighed, exasperated. “Don’t you remember? I’m not walking away. Ever.”

Grimmjow nodded. There was something in his throat he couldn’t seem to unstick, and he pushed Ichigo away as he tried to gain his feet. His knees wobbled, and his leg screamed in protest, but the pain only served as fuel. Whatever they’d injected him with made his reiatsu difficult to control, his connection to it wavering in a strange way. There was no doubt in his mind, however, that it would come back to him. And he didn’t need his reiatsu to kill.

Ichigo stood beside him, hands outstretched but not touching, apparently ready to catch him should he stumble. One hand on the wall, Grimmjow took his first good look around the cave. The other Hollows were not here. They must have left at some point. He put a hand to his hip, feeling for Pantera’s hilt. He found it, and felt a knot in his chest relax.

Grimmjow looked back at Ichigo, unsure now.

“You came for me.” He stated. Saying it out loud made it real.

“Yes.” Ichigo nodded. “I felt like something was wrong. You—” He paused, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment. “You would have come to visit me by now.” Ichigo shot him a half-smile that said something like _I was worried_ and _I’m a dork_ all at once.

Grimmjow swallowed. The silence stretched and hung. Finally,

“Thank you.”

Ichigo nodded once, knowing that was about all Grimmjow could stand to talk about it. He came forward, sliding himself under Grimmjow’s arm and wrapping his own around Grimmjow’s waist. His other hand held Grimmjow’s wrist. Supporting half of Grimmjow’s weight on his bad side, together they limped out of the cave.

-=-

Ichigo watched Grimmjow’s chest rise and fall in easy, even movements. Together, they had made it to Las Noches. They washed Grimmjow down and freed him of the blood, sweat, and sand that had clung to him. After that they’d treated his wounds, working around each other easily the whole way. Bandages in place, Grimmjow had decided to try for some sleep and finally achieved it about an hour ago.

Ichigo couldn’t stop watching Grimmjow’s breath. Couldn’t stop thinking about what might have happened if he hadn’t listened to his gut. If Grimmjow had…

“Ichigo.”

Ichigo jumped. “Y-yeah?” He managed.

“I want you to kill me.”

“…What.”

“You heard me.”

“Why?”

Grimmjow opened his eyes, levering himself up on his good arm to give Ichigo a long, searching look. Finally, he tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“The way I see it, when you die, you have a damn good chance at becoming a Shinigami Captain.” Grimmjow started. “I’ll never be welcomed in the Soul Society.” He glanced at Ichigo before continuing. “Not as I am. If you kill me with Zangetsu, I have a chance to become a Plus in the Seireitei.” Now he looked at Ichigo plainly. Grimmjow looked very sure.

“You have _a chance_.” Ichigo repeated flatly.

Grimmjow nodded.

“There’s no guarantee.” Grimmjow half-shrugged. “It’s a theory, really.”

“No guarantee.” Ichigo didn’t know why he couldn’t catch the fuck up here.

Grimmjow nodded again. When the silence stretched out, he kept talking.

“I don’t remember my human life. I could have been a criminal, I suppose, or committed other sins. In that case, the gates of Hell will appear, right?” Ichigo nodded woodenly, and Grimmjow nodded to himself as confirmation before continuing. “Right. And I suppose if I do become a Plus, I might not be myself anymore. Gillians are made up of many Hollows, and while I reigned and came out on top, it might mean that killing me as I am now separates me. Makes me… I don’t know. The Hollow—person, I mean, I was before Gillian-class.”

“And if you do become a Plus? Say you keep all of your memories, everything?” Ichigo prompted.

“Then I’ll still be strong. I’ll be able to become a Shinigami myself. If you become Captain, I can join your division, or whatever they are. I’ll be your _Segundo._ ” Grimmjow gave him a toothy grin, one that Ichigo remembered very, very well. “It’s a step up from _Sexta_ , after all.”

Ichigo was silent.

“I figure that if you kill me now, I’ll be able to rise in the ranks to meet you by the time you die.” Grimmjow’s grin faded as he became serious, searching Ichigo’s face for some kind of response.

“But there’s no guarantee, Grimmjow.” Ichigo couldn’t speak above a whisper. “What if nothing happens? No Hell, no Seireitei, what if you just disappear?”

Grimmjow took a deep breath, looking down at his lap. Finally, he looked up.

“Then that’s the risk I’m gonna take.” Grimmjow leaned forward, reaching out and taking Ichigo’s wrist, demanding that they lock eyes. When Ichigo finally did meet his gaze, Grimmjow growled out, “I want it to be you.”

Ichigo swallowed.

“Okay. Okay, just… Give me—I need—” He sighed, digging the heel of his free hand into his eye.

Grimmjow let go of him and laid back, and Ichigo crawled up beside him, careful not to jostle his injuries, and rested his head on Grimmjow’s chest. No heart beat there. He touched the edge of Grimmjow’s Hollow hole, making the Arrancar shiver.

“I am afraid, Ichigo. Don’t think I’m not.” Grimmjow murmured, his fingers tangling in the hairs at Ichigo’s nape. “But I can’t… Not like this. Not like I am now, I can’t keep… being what we are. Not forever. You _will_ become a Captain, Ichigo, and when you do, you can’t come to Hueco Mundo like this. I won’t be able to come into the Seireitei, no matter what’s happened in the past.” He pressed his face to the top of Ichigo’s head, inhaling deeply.

Ichigo stroked his hand over Grimmjow’s chest in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. He was afraid too, but he understood all the same. There was a part of him that was convinced, too, that they’d been hurtling toward this all along.

“Okay. When do you want to…?”

“Whenever you’re ready.” Grimmjow rumbled. “You’re the one has to do it, after all.”

Ichigo nodded.

“Let’s just do it now. Yeah?” Ichigo asked. “Because I’ll never be ready. No point putting it off.”

Ichigo carefully got up, helping Grimmjow to stand, too. It was strange to face him, and know that not only was this not really a defeat, but this ending was not coming after a fight. He unsheathed Zangetsu as Grimmjow put a hand on the wall to steady himself.

“Make sure you hit the mask.” Grimmjow reminded, cocking his head at just the right angle.

“Yeah.” Ichigo took Zangetsu in both hands.

“I…” Grimmjow swallowed hard; Ichigo watched his Adam’s apple bob. He looked like he was struggling to say something, but the words were escaping him.

“Grimmjow.” Ichigo stopped him. “It’s okay. Me, too.” He tried to smile, but it faded too fast.

“See you on the other side, then.”

“On the other side.”

Ichigo raised Zangetsu. Grimmjow closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Ichigo gathered his reiatsu around him, because Grimmjow deserved nothing less than this. He released his _shikai_ , and moved his blades into position.

“ _Getsuga…_ ”

Grimmjow held his breath, squeezing his eyes shut more tightly.

“ _Tenshō._ ”


	2. Apoyo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some translation notes:  
> Obaa-san: "grandmother", a term one might use to address one's own grandmother.  
> Babaa: equivalent of "old hag". He says it with love. -snort-  
> Botchan: used to address another person's son. She says it with love.

Grimmjow awoke, gasping, spluttering, clawing at the earth underneath him. It was mud beneath him, and he couldn’t see for the water in his eyes. But there was no pain, not like he’d been expecting. He managed to get up, still trying to catch his breath. There was no pain, but shit he felt terrible. He looked down at his hand, and the ticket he had grasped in it.

A number? No, an address. Sort of. That’s right, he’d been given a ticket telling him where to go. Where he would live.

Fuck, but he was starving. Why did hunger feel so familiar?

He searched his memories desperately for the answer. The last thing he remembered was receiving the ticket. He remembered his name. Clearly, he remembered how to read. But who had given him the ticket, and where? How had he gotten here? Where _was_ here?

He looked up and around, sucking on his lips. His face felt weirdly light and cold, and he rubbed his cheeks furiously before running a hand through his hair, slicking it back with the rain water and preventing it from falling into his face. When he removed them, he found that there was something on the ground beside him. He picked it up—a sword. It must be his. There wasn’t anyone else around, after all.

There was no one around, in this forest. He sniffed, the cold starting to sink into his skin, down into his bones. He needed to find shelter.

Grimmjow searched around himself mentally, and found it disturbing that his awareness didn’t go any farther than the distance that he could see. Why was that so unsettling? What was going on?

He picked a direction at random, since it all seemed the same. Clutching the ticket in one hand, sword in the other, and wrapping his arms around himself, he plowed forward.

-=-

Grimmjow arrived, eventually, at what seemed to be the edge of a settlement. Houses and roads, at least. The few people in the streets wore rags, and no sandals on their feet. They looked at him with eyes that promised violence, or with eyes that held nothing at all. None of them approached.

He did not linger, either on their faces or their doorsteps, moving through the town like a ghost. At some point he realized he was naked. This didn’t really bother him, mostly because it didn’t really seem to bother anyone else. The more he walked, the hungrier he became. Eventually, he no longer registered the faces of the people around him or the facades of the buildings. He walked blindly down the street, focusing on each breath and each step.

“You’d best come here, out of the rain, boy.”

Grimmjow stopped and looked up and around, blinking rain out of his eyes. He found the source of the voice—an old woman, standing in a doorway with a weather-beaten shawl around her shoulders. She had her hand out in a welcoming gesture, and the door to her home was open, warmth billowing out from inside.

Grimmjow didn’t remember a lot about himself from whatever life he’d had before arriving here, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t the type of person to just trust some old lady, even if she seemed completely harmless. Appearances could be deceiving and all that.

But the warmth was tempting, and so was her smile. She was an old hag with nothing, and he was in his prime with a sword. He’d be fine.

So Grimmjow shuffled forward, ducking his head to enter the small abode. It seemed tallness was not the average here—the ceilings were low, the door frames were low… He ran the risk of hitting his head if he just sneezed too hard. He stood, dripping, just inside the door, looking around. There was a fire in the center of the room, over which a pot hung. Piles of blankets and pillows were in each corner of the room, and there was one doorway to his left, which presumably led to a bathroom.

The little granny tottered in after him, shutting the door, trapping the warmth inside. Grimmjow closed his eyes and suppressed a shiver. He could feel the warmth dancing on his skin, slowly making its way toward his cold, cold bones.

“Here.”

Grimmjow opened his eyes. She was holding out a towel for him. He took it suspiciously, folding the ticket deeper into his palm to do so.

“You dry off, and I’ll see if I can find some clothes that’ll fit you.” She smiled up at him, which took Grimmjow a moment to register because her face was so wrinkled anyway.

Numbly, he began to towel off, starting with his hair and working his way down his body. He put the towel in his hand and ran it down the length of his sword’s hilt before dropping it to the floor and soaking up the mess he’d made by pushing the cloth around with his foot. The old woman was digging around in one of the piles of blankets, and at this point, she emerged, groaning as she straightened up.

“These belonged to my son. He was tall, too—they ought to fit you.” She passed them to him, and Grimmjow started to struggle how to figure out clothes.

The old woman sat down, ignoring his plight, and stirred the pot over the fire. She had to take the lid off to do so, and once she did, Grimmjow paused and almost moaned. It smelled amazing.

“Word travels fast. The people say you look hungry. It’s not much—we don’t often get meat here. Just some potatoes and carrots, I’m afraid.”

Grimmjow pulled the shirt over his head. The pants didn’t go below his knee, and were patched in quite a few places. They were soft with a life of being well-worn and well-loved, and they helped to warm him even faster. The shirt wasn’t really a shirt at all, just a piece of cloth with a hole in the middle. But it fell over his shoulders and covered his torso, and that was good enough. The neckline was wide, and he had to adjust it until neither side fell off his shoulders. Finally, he was able to sit down catty-corner to the old woman, his sword beside him.

“What’s your name, boy?” She asked him, not unkindly.

“Grimmjow.” _I think._ He added silently. He might be remembering someone else’s name, after all.

“Grimmjow. Unusual name.” She chuckled.

Grimmjow bared his teeth in a sneer and was about to shoot something back, but the old lady only spoke over him.

“You may call me Obaa-san, if you like.” She seemed to laugh to herself. “I’m so old, I don’t remember my real name anymore.”

Grimmjow had to do a sort of double-take.

“Here.” She placed a steaming bowl of soup in his hands.

It was a wooden bowl, and there was no spoon to go with it. But it was beautifully carved, and the soup was creamy and full of flavor. Grimmjow gobbled down the first bowl and held it out to her for a second helping, trying to school his features into something other than pleading.

But Obaa-san just laughed and filled it again, watching him wolf down bowl after bowl until all he could do was lie on the floor and groan about how full he was.

She puttered around while he recovered, setting out the blankets and cushions across the fire from each other. Presumably, one for her, and one for Grimmjow. Staring up at the ceiling, Grimmjow was realizing that the house was not as well-built as he once thought. There were gaps in the walls through which the cold blew in, and the roof leaked just enough to be annoying.

“You should rest, we’ll have an early day tomorrow.” Obaa-san sing-songed, laying down in her pile of blankets.

Grimmjow dragged himself over to his own, and was asleep within minutes.

-=-

The next morning did come early. Obaa-san shook him awake, and then sent him on a mission to look for spare wood with which to patch up the house. She did this with a cheerful smile and a promise that there would be more food by the time he got back, and Grimmjow had a very bad feeling about all of it.

But he went out and did as she asked, awkwardly asking around to sour-faced people if they had anything to spare. Unsurprisingly, no one did.

So instead of continuing, Grimmjow found his way back to the forest from which he’d come, unsheathing his sword.

“Well,” He told it in a mutter. “You’re probably better at cutting people, but let’s give this a try.”

Grimmjow did not remember much, but he was pretty sure that chopping wood with a sword was the hardest thing he’d ever attempted, in any life, ever.

He returned near dusk with an armful of clumsily cut shingles and boards. He didn’t think it really mattered, since it seemed every place here was made with clumsily cut shingles and boards and in bad repair besides, but he was still angry with himself for not being able to do better.

As promised, Obaa-san had food ready, and had somewhere procured hammer and nails. As before, Grimmjow wolfed down the food, and Obaa-san warned him that the next morning he’d be getting up bright and early.

And so he did. The next day, she had him repair the house, covering up the holes in the walls and patching the roof. All the while, he could smell some sort of stew cooking slowly over the fire. He cursed ever having woken up near this fucking place.

“Food, Botchan?” Obaa-san poked her head out of the front door, holding his bowl, filled with a thin-brothed soup.

“Piss off, Babaa!” Grimmjow snarled from his precarious perch on the roof, trying very hard to restrain himself from dropping the hammer on her head and killing her. Obaa-san laughed hysterically.

He still came down for food, though.

-=-

“Hey, Babaa, do you know what this is?” Grimmjow asked, uncharacteristically quietly. He held out his ticket to her, which he had kept though it had been months now since he’d first arrived.

“Oooh, yes.” Obaa-san took the ticket from him, holding it in the firelight and squinting to see it better. “Yes, it’s your ticket. I had one when I first came here… Oh, I was young then, you should have seen me!” She laughed, delighted. “I used to be very beautiful, you know.”

“Right.” Grimmjow agreed flatly, unimpressed.

“It tells you where you’re meant to live, here in the Rukongai.” Obaa-san continued, unbothered. “It brought you to me.” She smiled warmly at him, handing it back.

“Does it mean anything, though?” He asked.

“Not particularly.” Obaa-san shrugged and shook her head. “We live in District 68 in the South.” She told him. “The lower the number, the nicer the district, but really it’s all by chance.”

Grimmjow said nothing, looking down at the ticket. The ink was blurred now, and the paper very crumpled. He frowned, clenching it tighter in his hand. Why did he feel so pressured every time he looked at it? Like it meant something, like he was supposed to be doing something? The longer he stayed still, the more antsy he got.

“Babaa, what am I doing here?” He whispered. “Why can’t I remember anything? Sometimes I think I _do_ remember, but then it’s gone…” He broke off helplessly, looking up at her.

“I couldn’t remember anything from when I was alive, either.” She put a withered hand on his knee consolingly.

She seemed to consider for a long time, frowning to herself. Finally, she said, “It’s time for bed.”

Grimmjow slept fitfully, tossing and turning. He had dreams all night of swirling blackness, accompanied by overwhelming sadness. In the dreams, he felt like he was saying goodbye, but there was no one to say goodbye to. No one was there. He awoke, frustrated and troubled.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it, however. Obaa-san was already ready to go, dressed in her shawl and a battered basket over one arm.

Grimmjow gave her a searching look as he got ready, fastening his sword at his hip.

“You’re eating me out of house and home.” Obaa-san laughed. “We have to go shopping.”

Grimmjow flushed, and did not complain when she took his elbow to steady herself as they walked along. They walked mostly in silence, with Grimmjow keeping an eye on those around them in the streets. He didn’t trust any of them to not take whatever small amount of money Obaa-san had. Well, they’d lose an arm before she lost a single cent.

At the market, she had him pay the vendors and pick out the vegetables. The market was never bustling, and often there were slim pickings. Obaa-san always reminded him it could be worse, they could be in one of the lower Districts, where they had even less. There was always someone stealing, here.

He felt the impact from behind, and instinctively reached out to grab the scruff of whoever ran by, at the same time steadying Obaa-san.

“Are you okay?” He asked her.

“Oh, I’m fine.” She reassured him, waving away his concern.

“Let me go!”

“Hm?” Grimmjow turned his attention to his catch.

A boy, no more than twelve years old. Grimmjow didn’t let him go, only lifted him higher.

“Why should I?” Grimmjow sneered. “Why don’t you give back what you took?”

“You there! Hand over the boy!”

“Now what?” Grimmjow muttered, turning around.

There was someone standing there, of course, but they were a familiar someone. Grimmjow squinted at them, trying to remember. He was turning up nothing.

“Do I know you?” He called over.

The two stood in the square, where people were giving them a very wide berth. They wore black hakamas, though one wore a white over coat. The white-coated one had black hair, and uncaring eyes. The other, though, had the most ridiculous red hair Grimmjow had ever seen. Grimmjow let go of the boy, who scrambled away, and faced the two head-on. He put his hands in his pockets, looking them both up and down. A memory was tugging at him furiously as the redhead leaned over and whispered to his companion.

“Go home, Babaa.” Grimmjow murmured, not taking his eyes off of them.

She gave him a long, worried look, before tottering off with many glances over her shoulder.

“I said, _do I know you?_ ” Grimmjow called, louder.

The redhead looked at him, stepping forward, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Grimmjow couldn’t help the grin that broke across his face. He hadn’t had a real fight since he got here. He had a feeling he liked fighting, when it was a challenge. The minor scraps he’d had while he was here were nothing, were boring. When the redhead drew his sword, Grimmjow moved on instinct, drawing his own.

He heard a boom, and dismissed it, because he was suddenly in the redhead’s face, their swords meeting in a kiss of steel.

“Sonido?” The redhead muttered under his breath. “Who are you?!” He demanded.

Grimmjow grinned impossibly wider. “I’m Grimmjow Jaegerjaques. Who the fuck are you?”

Grimmjow didn’t get an answer. The redhead disengaged, stepping back several times to put a good amount of distance between them. Then he and the white-coated one both disappeared. Grimmjow watched them go, grin fading, eyes narrowing.

-=-

“They knew who I was.” Grimmjow greeted Obaa-san as he walked through the door.

She was sitting facing him, her face grave and solemn.

“Grimmjow, sit down.”

Grimmjow hesitated, his silence more than enough to question _why?_

Obaa-san sighed.

“Grimmjow, I’ve been very selfish. I was a lonely old woman before you came, and you’ve been so very helpful.” She smiled, but it looked like a painful one. “I think it’s time you left.”

Grimmjow tried not to show exactly how uncomfortable that idea made him.

“Why?” He asked finally, sitting down.

“You should go and join the Academy, Botchan. You’re going to be a strong Shinigami someday, and it was selfish of me to keep you here.” She patted his hand. “You’ve even already got a Zanpakuto.”

Grimmjow swallowed. He didn’t want to leave her alone again, but he couldn’t deny that he was starting to feel like he was finally moving forward, heading in the right direction.

“How do I get there?” He asked.

-=-

Obaa-san saw him off the next morning, and Grimmjow looked back at her only once. What a sight she made. A hunched old lady, standing on the stoop of her home. Grimmjow had lived there for months, and for all the improvements they’d made, it was still just a little, dirty hovel. She had gifted him with her shawl, _‘to remember me by, Botchan.’_ He had it wrapped firmly around his shoulders, tucked into the neckline of his poncho.

As he watched, she raised her hand in farewell. Awkwardly, Grimmjow raised his own. He felt like something monumental was happening, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, and therefore was left with this strange, awkward feeling.

He turned away from her. She’d be fine without him. After all, she’d already lasted to this ripe old age.

Grimmjow rolled his shoulders and forced himself to adopt a devil-may-care posture as he strode down the street in bare feet like he owned it. All of it.

It was time for some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some more scenes planned between these two, but there was no really good place to put them. Grimm needed an uninvolved third party to help him sorta get on his feet, and I love this sort of trope.
> 
> A note about Grimmjow's abilities: everywhere I've looked, it says Sonido is an instinctual ability in Hollows. One does not require training in order to perform Sonido (though, presumably, practice makes perfect.) I chose Grimmjow to remember how to do this through muscle memory alone.
> 
> Usually Shinigami get their Zanpakuto upon entrance into the Academy, where it is an Asauchi. Over time, the Asauchi is molded by its owner's soul and becomes a fully-fledged Zanpakuto. It is completely intentional that Grimmjow retains his sword instead of acquiring one in this manner. .w.
> 
> A side note about Obaa-san that I couldn't find any place to put- sometimes in order to keep the balance of souls, Shinigami are sent to the Rukongai (with permission) to kill citizens and thereby reincarnate them into the Living World. This is how Obaa-san lost her family members, many years ago.


	3. Soporte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude, with snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory Christmas thing happening here.
> 
> Small note about children- all pairings featured here are the same as those found in canon except Ichigo and Orihime. They are, of course, not together in this fic but instead are really good friends.
> 
> Kazui still exists, but he is Orihime and Uryuu's son. (I also imagine him to have black hair because of his father this time)

Ichigo sighed, looking out of the window at the snow-covered hospital grounds. It was beautiful, and even as he watched the sky began to let loose another flurry, the flakes falling gently down passed him. He looked away, back to his patient. A car crash, right before Christmas. It was horrible, and Ichigo hoped the family would show up soon. Christmas had been brought to many patients here, the ones who couldn’t make it home and who had family and friends to trim up their rooms.

“Ichigo, come _on_!”

He turned to the door. Orihime was standing there, already changed out of her scrubs and smiling brightly. Ichigo felt himself smile back, albiet a bit more weakly.

“Sure. Let me just finish up here and I’ll meet you at the nurses’ station?” He asked, already checking his clipboard once more.

“Alright. But hurry!”

She clicked away, cheerily calling a ‘Merry Christmas’ to everyone she passed. Ichigo smiled after her another moment before checking on his patient just once more. Satisfied that he’d left clear enough instructions for the overnight nurses, he left to his office, smiling back at the various ‘Merry Christmas’es he received along the way.

The moment he was in his office with the door closed behind him, he allowed himself a moment to slump. Everyone he worked with knew he got a little weird around Christmastime, but they really didn’t know the half of it. He hung up his coat in silence, put his clipboard on his desk. He jotted out a few notes on a pad and, propping his door open with his foot, taped them up on the outside in case anyone came looking for him.

He left his pager in his desk drawer, to be picked up on Tuesday morning when he returned. He grabbed his coat and scarf, putting them on carelessly. Next, his briefcase, before he took one last look around his modest home-away-from-home, and left, locking the door behind him.

He met Orihime at the nurse’s station on their floor, offering her his arm. Together, they walked to the elevators in companionable silence. It lasted until they made it to the street, walking down the snowy sidewalk. Ichigo was content to listen to their feet crunch in the fresh snow, but Orihime apparently wasn’t.

“You should come over this year.” She suggested, the cheer in her voice not quite enough to hide her concern.

“Thank you, Orihime, but I have a date.” Ichigo returned, softly.

Orihime gave him a flat, knowing look that he tried to avoid.

“Spending the night at home with dry eggnog and your cat doesn’t count as a date.” She pointed out.

Ichigo sighed, unable to help the smile that crossed his face. “Orihime…”

“I understand why you’re waiting, Ichigo, I do. But you have your whole life ahead of you. If he loves you, he’ll understand if you decide to, you know, get out there.”

Ichigo looked at Orihime. Sweet, kind, forgiving Orihime.

“No, Orihime, he wouldn’t.”

Grimmjow, in effect, was not human. Had never been human. Yes, technically, he had been once. But from the moment Ichigo had met him, the only life Grimmjow had ever known was that of a Hollow. Of eat or be eaten, literally. He had the instincts of a Hollow, the motivations of a Hollow. Not of a human. If Ichigo were to take another, even if it was only in the meantime, even if only for a night, Grimmjow might never know. And despite that, Ichigo would still feel like it was a betrayal. If Grimmjow did ever find out, he would take it as an absolute rejection. Maybe it sounded harsh to some, but Ichigo was very content with his life.

So tonight, Christmas night, he would go home. He would sit with his cat, and drink eggnog, and watch Christmas specials on TV. He would call his father and wish him a Merry Christmas. He would call his sisters, and talk to his little nephews and nieces. He would call Orihime, later, and listen to her son tell him all about the cookies they were leaving for Santa. Uryuu would take the phone and tell him in the brusque way he’d never quite been able to calm since they were in high school together that Ichigo should stop being such an asshole and come over for once. He would laugh and hang up, and call Chad.

Ichigo would have dinner with his cat, and he would go to bed. In the morning, he would open the gifts from his friends before calling them again to make sure they’d gotten the ones he’d sent them weeks ago. And then, the day after, he would go to work.

That had been every Christmas for ten years, and it wasn’t going to change any time soon if Ichigo had anything to say about it.

-=-

Grimmjow awoke with his nose smarting and his chin aching. He groaned and sat up, rubbing his jaw and looking around himself. That’s right—he’d fallen asleep over his homework again. He rubbed his eyes, dragging his palms down his face. He had to learn this Kaido, or he’d fail. It was a relatively low-level healing spell, but Grimmjow had more of a gift for destruction than he did reconstruction.

He sighed, looking out his window.

The dorm’s courtyard was covered with a blanket of freshly fallen snow. This late, there was no one outside. Grimmjow put his chin in his hand, allowing himself to take a moment to just look at it. The sight of the endless blanket of white with the black night sky above tugged at his memory, but he’d long since learned that it would lead to nothing if he tried to remember. Only a headache and some class-A frustration.

“Turn off the light and go to bed already, will ya?”

Grimmjow ignored the grumble from his roommate. They wouldn’t last long—his roommates never did. This was the fourth one he’d had just this semester.

He wondered how the old lady was doing. It was so cold out—would her little shack hold? There was a part of him, a part he didn’t want to admit out loud that it existed, that felt bad for not visiting her yet. He’d been in the Academy for two semesters already. They _did_ receive breaks. Grimmjow just usually spent his doing homework or in the library.

Grimmjow closed his eyes against the white, and instead there was a flash of orange across his eyes. A smile he couldn’t place.

That was why he was doing all of this, after all. Going through all of this. He could remember a promise. He’d promised someone he would wait for them here. That he’d climb to the top for them. He couldn’t remember anything else, but he trusted his gut, and his gut said breaking this promise would be the worst thing he’d ever done. And he had a feeling that he’d done some pretty bad things already.

There was a knock at the door, making Grimmjow turn in his seat, hooking his elbow over the back of his chair.

“Come in.” He called, at the same time as his roommate grumbled a ‘go away’ under the blankets.

The door opened to reveal Abarai Renji. Grimmjow’s eyes narrowed, and he stood slowly.

“Abarai.” Grimmjow greeted, feeling a deep wariness settle in his stomach.

“ _Fukutaicho!_ ”  His roommate scrambled out of bed in nothing but boxers and hurried to bow. Grimmjow regarded this with a raised eyebrow before returning his attention to Renji.

“Jaegerjaques. Your presence is requested by _Sotaicho_ Kyoraku. You are to come with me at once.” Abarai said this with a completely straight face before turning on his heel and walking out.

Grimmjow paused for only a heartbeat before grabbing his Zanpakuto and following him, closing the door on his way out.

The walk down the halls of the dorm was silent. Grimmjow was still in his uniform from the day, hadn’t bothered to change out of it when he settled down to study. He felt like he should have, now. He wondered if they were going to kick him out.

He wasn’t deaf, after all. He’d heard the rumors about himself floating around the Academy. That Grimmjow wasn’t really a Shinigami. Don’t let his appearance fool you; somewhere there was a mask and a hole, and this filthy Hollow was hiding among them. Why would the Captain’s Council allow this? Surely Central 46 had something to say about it?

Grimmjow’s initial reaction was to beat the shit out of anyone who suggested he didn’t deserve to be exactly where he was. He’d passed the entrance exam, just like everyone else here. He did his own work, minded his own business. How dare anyone suggest he was a Hollow.

But beating the shit out of _anyone_ really would get him kicked out, and for the aforementioned reasons, that was something he couldn’t afford. He’d made a promise.

Grimmjow was led out of the dorms and into the Academy proper, passed the familiar classrooms and training rooms. He slid his hands into his pockets, eyeing Abarai’s back as they walked. He wondered how Kuchiki stood him. They’d had a daughter, he heard, so she must like him well enough.

They stopped short at a seemingly random door, and Abarai stood back to allow Grimmjow to go through. Grimmjow gave him a long, searching look, and received no explanation. Abarai wasn’t even looking at him. Grimmjow sneered inwardly before turning to the door. He opened it, instinctively holding his breath. His stomach felt abruptly empty, even though he’d made sure to eat a few hours ago.

The classroom door slid open, revealing that the classroom had been cleared of all furniture. Instead, Shunsui Kyoraku was waiting for him, a peaceful smile on his face. Sui-Feng stood to his right, Rojuro Otoribashi to his left. As Grimmjow looked around the room, he realized that every single Captain was present. His heart began to pound in his chest, and his instincts screamed at him to run. That this was a threat, and they were going to _eat_ —

“Grimmjow Jaegerjaques. Do you know why you are here?” Sui-Feng demanded, looking down her nose at him.

Grimmjow felt something in him recoil and then snarl in response, and he fought to hold that reaction back. He knew better. He might not like authority, even a little, but he knew how to survive. Snapping at her was not the way to do it.

“No, I don’t.” He said instead, looking at each of the Captains again. He wished he had a million more eyes so that he could keep track of all of them simultaneously.

“Surely you’ve heard the rumors around the Academy.” Shinji Hirako said, silkily.

Grimmjow said nothing.

“Grimmjow Jaegerjaques, we are here to tell you that the rumors are true.” Rukia Kuchiki spoke softly, like she was expecting to deal him an emotional blow.

Grimmjow watched her out of the corner of his eye, his expression unchanging. The window was behind Kyoraku. His best bet for escape would be to go back the way he had come. He couldn’t bother with opening the door, he’d have to break straight through it. He could do that. Maybe. They were very solid doors.

“You were an Espada under Sosuke Aizen, an Arrancar. After his defeat, you assisted in the defeat of the Quincy Yhwach and the Wandenreich.” Byakuya Kuchiki was regarding him with cold eyes, and Grimmjow met his gaze fearlessly.

“So why are we here?” Grimmjow turned his eyes back to Kyoraku. “Why was I even allowed into the Academy? Are you here to sentence me to death?” He felt the mood in the room shift a little and shifted his weight instinctively to his toes, ready to run. “Why are we meeting in some classroom in the Academy instead of in front of Central 46? What, exactly, is going on?”

“That’s what we were going to ask you.” Kyoraku said, his smile never fading. “We do not sentence people to death without reason, Grimmjow, and in some sense we owe you a bit of a debt. You assisted Soul Society when you had little reason and no loyalty to do so.” Grimmjow looked at Rukia, raising an eyebrow slightly. He was sure she’d have something to say about that first part; he’d heard the stories, but she remained silent.

Grimmjow’s eyes flicked back to Kyoraku. It was clear that it was Grimmjow’s turn to speak, but what should he say? The truth? That he didn’t remember a damn thing they were saying to him? That at night he dreamed of brown eyes and a rich voice and blackness, endless blackness? Or should he lie? Just make something up?

“I made a promise.” He said slowly, through gritted teeth. This felt worse than being disemboweled.

When it was clear that he would say no more, he was prompted.

“To whom?” Hitsugaya asked.

“I don’t know.” Grimmjow managed, looking straight ahead, at some place over Kyoraku’s left shoulder.

“That’s to be expected. You _aren’t_ a Hollow anymore, are you?” Mayuri purred. Grimmjow felt his skin crawl. Mayuri reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t remember who, just that he got a grossed-out feeling about it.

“No, I’m not.” Grimmjow refused to shuffle uncomfortably like he wanted to. Would they ask him to disrobe so they could really check? He had no Hollow hole anywhere on his body—he’d been over himself thoroughly.

“Yet you have preformed arts known only to Hollows.” Mayuri continued. “Byakuya- _taichou_ tells us you preformed a _Sonido_ in the Rukongai, and your _sensei_ tell us you continue to do so in moments of forgetfulness.” He took a step closer to Grimmjow, who clenched his fists but otherwise did not move. “In fact, the first time you tried to preform offensive _kido_ , you preformed a _cero_ instead.” Another step forward. “That you remember how to do so is quite _peculiar_.”

Grimmjow clenched his jaw and couldn’t stop himself from tensing up. If Mayuri didn’t back off, he didn’t know if he could be held responsible for his actions.

“Mayuri.” Kyoraku warned.

Mayuri blinked, seemingly to come to alert, and stepped back into his initial place without comment. Grimmjow forced his shoulders to relax.

“Jaegerjaques, the question is simple.” Tensuzaemon Iba’s serious voice broke through the silence. “Where do your loyalties lie?”

Grimmjow did not answer immediately. He turned the question over in his mind, fixing Iba with a flat look. Finally,

“The person I made the promise to.” He decided. It was as honest as he could be. “I would follow him anywhere. I would kill for him. His loyalties are my own.” Grimmjow’s mind told him this was possibly the worst answer he could have given. His gut told him he was not only right, but _just_ in saying this. His gut told him that no one would question him if they knew who he’d promised to.

If only _Grimmjow_ knew who he’d promised to.

Silence met his declaration. Finally, the other Captains looked at Kyoraku, so Grimmjow did, too.

“I am satisfied.” Kyoraku decided. “I will give Central 46 my assessment. They have no control over the Academy and so could not prevent you from entering, but by my word they will not stop you from becoming a part of the Gotei 13, if you succeed here.”

Grimmjow knew this was the part of the conversation where he bowed and prostrated himself with gratitude. Instead, he said nothing, hands sliding into his pockets instead.

If the other Captains had arguments against Kyoraku’s decision (which Grimmjow was sure they did, a few of them certainly looked rather sour) they did not voice them. They filed out one by one, until only Grimmjow and Kyoraku were left.

“Your _sensei_ tell me you are an exemplary student, Grimmjow.” Kyoraku said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I hadn’t pegged you as a brown-nose.”

“You knew me?” Grimmjow could have punched himself. No matter what, he was determined to show no weakness, and here he was showing someone exactly how hungry he was for any hint of his past.

“Only by the word of others.” Kyoraku adopted a more relaxed pose, slouching in his posture. “I wonder who you promised to, and what exactly you promised them.” His words had the affect of the rhetorical, so Grimmjow said nothing. “I have my suspicions, but I suppose time will tell.”

Grimmjow swallowed.

“Ah, well.” Kyoraku gave a contented sigh. “You’d best be off to bed. I remember my Academy days—they always seemed to start too early.”

“Classes start at 8:30 in the morning.” Grimmjow was surprised to hear himself say. It was early, sure, but not _that_ early.

“All the same.”

Grimmjow knew when he was being dismissed. He turned and left the room, forcing himself not to back out so that he could keep an eye on Kyoraku.

He walked back to his dorm room in a daze. What the _hell_ had just happened?

-=-

Another Christmas, alone with his cat. Ichigo smiled, scratching Tokei between the ears.

She was a fawn Siamese, so her fur was mostly a light cream color and not pure white, but her eyes were just the right shade of blue. Ichigo had seen her on the street and he hadn’t had the heart to leave her there, and then once she’d stayed a few days he hadn’t had the heart to find her a different home. He named her Tokei, _time,_ and she was his best friend.

There was a knock on the door, and Ichigo gave Tokei a last pat before going to answer it.

“ _Ichigooo!_ ” He was nearly knocked off his feet as small arms wrapped tightly around him. He laughed.

“It’s good to see you, too, Ichika.” He patted her messy head of red hair. She’d grown since he last saw her, which was always pleasantly shocking.

She ran off, almost immediately, chasing Tokei, who hissed and leapt for the top of the fridge. Another reason Ichigo had kept her- she had Grimmjow’s disposition, too.

“Rukia, Renji. It’s good to see you.” He hugged Rukia first, and then Renji, inviting them further into his house and closing the door behind him. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” Rukia returned, though Ichigo noticed it lacked the usual amount of cheer.

“Being a Captain finally getting hard?” He teased.

“Ichigo…” Renji sighed. “I have to tell you something.”

Rukia glared at her husband, her hands going to her hips. “Oh, _now_ you decide to tell him? On _Christmas_?”

Ichigo regarded this with bemusement and amusement simultaneously. “Tell me what on Christmas?” He interjected.

“Ichigo…” Renji took one look at his daughter in the living room before grabbing Ichigo’s arm and dragging him down the hall, where they could be afforded some privacy.

Ichigo listened to the tale Renji told with an emotion he couldn’t quite identify. Grimmjow was alive. He had enrolled in the Academy. He was on track to graduate, endorsed by Kyoraku himself. Ichigo felt his knees weaken, and felt for the wall to lean against it.

“He said he made a promise.” Rukia said, and when had she gotten over here? "Did he promise you something, Ichigo?” She asked, her voice not unkind.

“Yes.” Ichigo managed. “He… He’s really there? In the Academy?”

“Yes.” Rukia nodded solemnly.

Ichigo closed his eyes, letting the relief wash over him. He hadn’t been able to tell Orihime, his chief confidante, that he’d possibly been waiting for a dead man.

“How is he?” He asked.

“You could go see him.” Rukia pointed out.

“I can’t.” Ichigo shook his head. “I’m not a highschooler anymore.” He smiled sadly. “I have patients who might need me at the drop of a hat, I have to be available for them. I’m a doctor, Rukia.”

She nodded like she understood. “He’s… well.” She said, finally.

Renji snorted. “He’s as well as can be expected.” He corrected. “Some of the other students recognized him from the assault on Soul Society. They started rumors. The students of the Academy are all ages, but most of them are kids, and you know how kids can be.” Renji paused. “I think he spends most of his time studying. I know he doesn’t eat in the cafeteria with the rest of the students, and he’s been through five roommates now.”

Ichigo couldn’t help a laugh. Of course Grimmjow had been through five roommates. That was just like him. It sounded like he was having a rough time, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

“Ichigo, you should know… He doesn’t remember much.” Rukia told him softly.

Ichigo nodded almost eagerly. “Yes, we anticipated that.” He told them.

“ _Ichigoooo! To-chan got into the cabinetsss!_ ” Ichika called from the kitchen.

Ichigo took a deep breath. “I’m coming, Ichika.” He called back.

Rukia sighed, and Renji frowned, but they let him go.

-=-

Grimmjow groaned, rubbing his nose. He should start putting a pillow on his desk, seriously.

“ _Mrrow.”_

“What…?” Grimmjow didn’t have to look far to alleviate his confusion. There, outside his window, was a fluffy ginger cat. It stood on the outside sill, looking at him expectantly.

“How’d you get up here…?” Grimmjow murmured, opening the window.

The cat walked in like it owned the joint, sauntering over to sit on top of Grimmjow’s textbook. It began to groom itself, turning to lick its own shoulder rhythmically. Grimmjow shut the window, preventing the cold air from continuing to gust inside. The cat didn’t seem to mind, looking up at the noise before going back to washing its chest, unconcerned. Grimmjow sat, offering the cat his fingers to sniff. It did, and then rubbed its cheeks against his fingertips forcefully, purring loudly.

Grimmjow lived on the third floor. There was no tree outside his window. He had no idea how this cat managed to get up he—

“Ahhh, you’re not quite a normal cat, are you?” Grimmjow asked with amusement.

“ _Prrrrrow!_ ” The cat stood up, its two fluffy tails waving.

“Nekomata. I thought you only lived in the mountains, what are you doing down here?” Grimmjow murmured, stroking its head and scratching behind its ears.

The cat purred and rubbed against him.

“What are you called?” He murmured, stroking down its side. It turned honey-colored eyes to him and blinked, saying nothing. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll make something up. You won’t like it.” He grinned at the cat, who only sat down and began washing a paw. It was wrinkling the pages of his textbook. Grimmjow didn’t care.

“I’ll call you… Shoga. For your fur.” He scratched the cat’s head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any food here for you.”

The cat turned to lick the back of Grimmjow’s hand, its tails flicking independently of one another. Grimmjow allowed himself a small smile, watching the cat walk all over his desk and bat his pencils around.

“Come on.” He murmured. “If you follow me down to the cafeteria, I think I’ll be able to find you something.”

He stood, going to the door and opening it for the cat. The newly-named Shoga jumped down from the desk, stalking out of the room. Grimmjow led the way down to the kitchens. The cafeteria was abandoned this late at night, and while the kitchen wasn’t going at the moment, it was never truly closed. Students were welcome to come down and make their own food if they wished, but most usually just purchased their food day to day.

Grimmjow waited until everyone was gone and made his own food, for the most part. He didn’t like the stares that followed him in the cafeteria, or the whispers behind hands that he could never quite catch who they came from.

In the kitchen, he began to fry up some fish fillets, enough for both himself and Shoga. Some rice and vegetables, too. While they sizzled, he poured the cat a saucer of milk, and himself a glass of water. He’d only turned on one light—cooking in the dark was peaceful, and easier on his eyes.

When the fish was done, he tossed it in a bowl of rice and vegetables and tossed it all together for himself, and put the other fillet on a plate as it was for Shoga. Grimmjow dug in right away, laughing when Shoga recoiled from the steam that billowed from the fish.

“Bit warm, isn’t it?” He teased.

Shoga looked up at him flatly before turning back to the food.

“You’re welcome.” Grimmjow murmured, and for a while there was silence.

When he was done, he cleaned the pots he’d used and put them away, the dishes as well. Grimmjow started for his room, and Shoga followed behind.

He fell asleep that night with a warm presence curled up near his ribs, purring away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the ending of this chapter is a bit weak, but what happens next ought to be its own chapter. ^^; Sorry!


	4. Detenerse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fire, a meeting, a victory.

Grimmjow is not nervous. He's not. He doesn't get nervous. In fact, he hasn't been nervous all day. Not since he got up, not since he got dressed. He had no appetite for breakfast but that is _completely normal,_ fuck you very much.

 

His Zanpakuto is a comforting weight at his back, and he swallows before heading out to his class. Today, they are not meeting in the classroom or in one of the training rooms. They, and several other classes, are meeting in the courtyard. This is not a session that will be run by their sensei, either. This will be run by some of the older students, because everyone is being tested today.

 

How well do the older students take charge? (No idea, Grimmjow’s never met them and he doesn't care.) Who can work well in a group? (Three guesses.) Who can't? (Bingo, not Grimmjow.) Who actually succeeds today? (He plans to.)

 

Their task is simple. Go into the human realm, the one where actual mortal physical people live, and kill a hollow without damaging the surrounding area or tipping off any spirit-sensitive humans.

 

Well. It sounds simple.

 

Grimmjow keeps to the edges of the excited crowd when he arrives. Everyone is whispering, talking over one another, speculating about the day. Grimmjow has great grades on paper, and okay marks for practical application. His swordwork is top notch, but his kido needs work and _what if he sees a Hollow and everything goes out the window_? They've been taught all about Hollow hierarchy and biology, but there's something squirming in Grimmjow’s stomach. Something that is like excitement and thirst all at once.

 

He doesn't know what to name it and it feels like a bad thing only because it feels so _right_.

 

He's not nervous, and he absolutely doesn't excuse himself to disappear around the corner of a building to vomit up everything he ate last night.

 

“ _Prrrrrow?_ ”

 

Grimmjow looks up to see Shoga floating calmly in the air, as though some invisible person is holding him by the scruff of his neck. Shoga’s two tails are waving in time with one another for once, and Grimmjow sneers angrily, annoyed at being caught.

 

“I feed you.” He hisses defensively at the yokai. “You tell _no one.”_

 

Nekomata, among other things, typically have the power of speech. Shoga, as an individual, either isn't physically capable or simply refuses. And as he has no problem meowing and purring, Grimmjow finds it hard to believe that he can't shape those sounds into words.

 

Shoga just looks at him with intelligently glittering eyes, and Grimmjow shakes his head and walks away, back to the group. He showed up early like everyone else, but now he might be late.

 

He gets there just in time to catch the trail end of the safety briefing the older students give them, but this time he's legitimately unworried. To him, advice like _don't goof off_ should be common sense in this situation.

 

Then, the portal is opened, and the students file through. Passing through, Grimmjow feels nothing. The atmosphere doesn't change, nor the temperature, and he can still see well ahead of himself despite the darkness in the distance. It doesn't feel like anything at all, simply a change of scenery. Something tugs at his mind, like it often does, a memory of waving his hand through the air and the sky opening up, of blackness and water on your skin and creating your own path.

 

He shakes the half-memory away. Today, he's going to forget where he came from and focus on this assignment. This separates the wheat from the chaff, and Grimmjow does not fancy getting kicked out or held back when he's come so far.

 

They get the safety briefing again when they've all assembled in the human realm and are put into a rough approximation of a formation. Everyone is too excited to really obey, including all of the more serious students. Grimmjow is more enraptured by subtly stealing glances at their surroundings--they're in a field in a park, open enough to accommodate all of the students, and it's night time here. Grimmjow’s uniform feels itchy, or maybe that's just him. And yet, the older students succeed in getting his attention.

 

“We are joined today by someone who you may have read about in your textbooks if you have the newer editions. He's going to give you a few tips, so you are expected to _listen_.”

 

Grimmjow, being a head taller than most of the other students, still has to crane his neck to see who the hell they're talking about. At the front, with the older students, there is a man wearing a shinigami uniform, his Zanpakuto strapped comfortably to his hip. His orange hair is shocking, but he's going a bit gray at the temples. There is an easy smile on his face.

 

And he is looking directly at Grimmjow.

 

His eyes are brownbrownbrown and Grimmjow can't look away, feels frozen to the spot. He clenches his fists open and closed over and over, trying to do something, to _move_ . He does not have the newer edition of the textbooks, _who is this guy_ -

 

“And most importantly-” The man says with an air of finality. “ _don't get distracted_.”

 

Shockingly well-timed, at the end of his sentence, there is a roar that shakes the ground that rings out over the park. The students turn, searching for the sound but--

 

Something in Grimmjow just _knows_.

 

If he was assigned a group, he wouldn't know who they were anyway. Zeroing in on the sound, Grimmjow begins to run towards it. There is something about this that tugs at his memory, his muscles begging him to shift from the demanding _shunpo_ to the easier _sonido_ , his nose turning up into the wind and his lips parting just so in the attempt to catch a scent. A flash of orange hair clouds his vision but it's just a memory, _who was that_ \--it’s a distraction, but one that Grimmjow can't help at all.

 

He breaks through the trees and there it is. It looks like a giant worm with a mask for a face, and a big hole through the center. It turns towards Grimmjow immediately because _dammit,_ he forgot to hide his reiatsu.

 

_Strike one._

 

The worm raises its tail (ass?) to swat at him, but Grimmjow is already gone. He circles the beast, looking for an opening, looking for hidden dangers. Some of his classmates have followed him and are doing the same. Everyone wants to be the first to land a blow. Grimmjow watches two of them launch a simultaneous attack, and watches them both get swatted away like flies, like annoyances. The third student who attacks is merely shrugged off in annoyance.

 

Grimmjow watches, and he waits. His blood feels hot and has begun to sing in his ears. He feels like he could do this forever. All emotion has drained away, leaving only focus and some kind of glee that is like _want_ and _thirst_ all at once.

 

The beast roars as a student lands a blow on the back of its neck, and Grimmjow takes his chance while it's distracted. He gets right up to its face and unsheathes his Zanpakuto, ready to strike--

 

“ _Who are you?”_ The beast burbles at him. But it's still roaring, how-? Grimmjow looks around. No one else can hear this, it seems, because none of them have looked up. He feels frozen. “ _You hunt like one of usssss_ . _Are you going to eat me, little worm? Cut me up with your sharp knives and eat me?_ ”

 

Grimmjow holds the hilt of his sword more tightly.

 

“What are you waiting for?!” A voice behind him demands, outraged, and honestly Grimmjow is wondering that, too.

 

“ _You hunt like one of us. Make all the right movements. But you can’t be one of us, you don’t_ kill _like us. We use our_ teeth _!”_

 

_Strike two._

 

Grimmjow hops back, holding his right shoulder and biting back a sound of pain. It bit him. It _bit_ him. There is a fury Grimmjow has not known in a long time rising up in him, the kind of fury that promises he will lose his mind to it if he lets himself. Blood is soaking his uniform, and as Grimmjow is right-handed, he may well now be, as they say, _boned_. He has the suspicion that it was trying to bite his sword arm entirely off but for whatever reason didn't quite manage it.

 

The worm is laughing now, advancing upon him. Grimmjow does not hesitate a second time. He switches his Zanpakuto from his right hand to his left, braces himself, and then launches from the ground towards the beast. His heart is pounding, and his jaw aches from clenching it so tightly shut. He draws his sword down, hard, on the Hollow’s mask, cleaving it cleanly in two. The beast gives a dying gargle before dissipating entirely, off to start a new life in the Soul Society.

 

He’s just feeling the first sighs of relief when the ground starts to rumble, and a screech breaks through the night air.

 

“ _You killed him, you killed him!_ ” The wail fills Grimmjow’s head until his ears are ringing, and he goes to cover at least one while he tries to figure out where this new creature is coming from.

 

He steps back, looking over his shoulder.

 

_Strike three. You’re out._

 

A white arm shoots out of the ground under Grimmjow’s feet, and he’s able to regain his balance with ease, but he’s surprised and a bit distracted by the searing pain in his shoulder, so when it smacks him in the stomach and knocks the wind out of him, he wheezes, his lungs refusing to inhale. There’s a tree at his back and when did that happen? He looks up--it seems he broke several other trees on his way here.

 

He can’t think. He feels dazed, and his head is spinning. He stands shakily, needing to put a hand on his own knee to lever himself up. He looks around, confused. There’s a monster thrashing in the distance, and people are screaming. What is he doing here? Grimmjow rubs his head and lets out a soft groan.

 

He’s been hurt in training a few times, but nothing serious. The sensei won’t let them get too involved to the point that a serious injury would be a risk. Yet this still feels familiar. The sharp ache in his back, the ringing in his ears, the blood pouring down his torso and staining his school uniform. Grimmjow rolls both shoulders, the pain spiking steeply. It feels… _good_. There’s a rushing in his veins and his eyesight has spots but there is something like hunger and something like thirst in his belly and in his throat and…

 

He looks at his palm, painted red with his own blood. His heart is pounding, he can feel it in his chest but he can’t feel his hand around the hilt of his zanpakuto even though he knows he’s still holding it. His vision has narrowed to the blood, now dripping down his wrist in one tiny rivulet. He feels his cheeks bunch and his lips stretch and he’s grinning the widest he’s ever grinned. He looks to the Hollow, thrashing and fighting the remaining students.

 

He wants to see _more_ . He wants to _feel_ more. _More more MORE._

 

Grimmjow rushes to get back into the fight, but there’s a flash of orange hair and there’s their weird guest guy, dispatching the Hollow with more ease than Grimmjow has ever seen any of his sensei demonstrate anything. Grimmjow stops, watching from yards away, the grin slowly fading off of his face. The guy checks on the other students who were injured, and there were a lot of them, before he looks at Grimmjow.

 

_Those eyes._

 

Grimmjow feels lost. There’s a fire in his belly and his throat and it’s stopping him from saying anything, from even moving. There’s sound and action around him, there’s an angry older student coming his way and Grimmjow is reasonably sure that he’s about to be informed that he’s in big fucking trouble, but he can’t bring himself to feel it at all. He can’t see anything except those eyes.

 

The older student is talking to him, and Grimmjow finds his feet and walks towards the man with the orange hair and the honey eyes--

 

“ _Jaegerjaquez!”_

 

The older student has stepped in front of him, stopping his progress, and the man with the honey eyes has looked away because somebody has started talking to him, too, and Grimmjow is tall so it’s easy to ignore the senpai who is stopping him from talking to the most important man Grimmjow has ever known to exist but the moment is gone and broken and all Grimmjow can do is watch as orange hair walks away.

 

-=-

 

Things change after that. Not drastically, but they change. Grimmjow is used to being ignored, when he moves from training room to classroom, or suspiciously whispered about in the halls or the cafeteria. But now when he has to leave a room, ducking because of the tiny door frames, people stop and stare. They call out to him, sometimes insults, sometimes just _hey_. In the cafeteria, when people notice he’s walked in, it spreads like wildfire and there’s silence for a moment before renewed conversation rises up like a wave.

 

He doesn’t really know what to do with this. He was assigned an extra long paper on the importance of understanding Hollow behavior and how that relates to working in a team in addition to all his other work as a punishment, but among the student body his recklessness has led to a sort of acceptance. Apparently, he’s shown that he can be just as stupid as the rest of them. He’s shown he’s human.

 

It takes a lot of getting used to.

 

Near graduation, a cute girl he doesn’t know hands him an invitation with a time and an address. Grimmjow watches her go, confused, and decides, maybe he’ll make one more bad decision. He doesn’t think he’s ever been to a party, not even when he was human. At least, he has no memory of it whatsoever.

 

-=-

 

“And with that, I leave you to your work. Show me what you can do.” Ichigo grins brightly at the group of young students in front of him.

 

They’ve all worked hard to be here, and some of their fellows couldn’t take the pressure and as a result there’s only about ten of them left, but Ichigo is proud of them. They’ve spent a lot of time preparing, and they’ve certainly both taken a load off of his hands and put more responsibility on his shoulders. But because of their hard work, the only thing left to do now is let them go spread their wings and test their mettle as fully-fledged doctors.

 

So he gets a week-long vacation (though, on call, as always) and he plans to use it productively, with a visit to the Soul Society. Tetsuzaemon Iba is getting ready to retire, and there are meetings Ichigo has to take part in if he plans on taking Iba’s place. He already has the blessings of the other captains, it’s just a matter of getting through this transition period, as Ichigo does want to live out the rest of his life on earth before joining the 13 Court Guard Squads. He has a lot of homework to do, because he doesn’t plan on going to the Academy, he needs to learn the history and the laws of the Seireitei before he formally takes over.

 

Mostly it’s resulted in a lot of late-night reading of thick packets, but Ichigo thinks he’s got a pretty good handle on it all anyway.

 

He leaves work that day with a spring in his step, excitement coloring his mood. At seven o’clock on the dot, Renji and Rukia show up to bring him to the Soul Society. Ichigo could make it there himself, of course, but there must be formalities to all this, and it’s not like it’s a chore to see his old friends again.

 

They take the long way, because why not, and go through the Rukongai to get through the Seireitei. They chat about nothing in particular until they come to a house in the first district. There’s lights coming from inside, and loud music, and Ichigo regards it with amusement.

 

“What’s going on in there?” He asks, stopping his friends just a moment.

 

“Oh, graduating class at the Academy puts on a party every year. So long as they don’t get _too_ rowdy, the sensei just kind of ignore it.” Renji snickers.

 

“It’s notorious for getting too rowdy.” Rukia mutters, scowling, clearly remembering her own graduating year party.

 

Suddenly, a window breaks and a bottle rolls out into the street. As they watch, drunken students come pouring out of the front door.

 

And then things start to happen very, _very_ quickly.

 

-=-

 

Grimmjow is white-knuckling the countertop, going from being completely unable to look himself in the mirror to unable to look away. There’s been knocking on and off at the bathroom door, but he hasn’t answered it at all. The lock has held so far, and that’s good enough for him.

 

What the fuck is he even doing here?

 

He’s alone. He doesn’t know anyone. People took one look at him walking in and scattered to make room, but nobody tried talking to him. Nobody came over with a drink or anything. Standing around awkwardly has never been Grimmjow’s cup of tea. He found the bathroom and has been here ever since, who knows how long it’s been.

 

This is a feeling Grimmjow is utterly unfamiliar with. Lost, floundering, _drowning_. He thinks briefly of actually drowning himself, and part of him thinks just smashing the mirror and slitting his own throat would be faster.

 

Maybe he’ll just, y’know, sneak out and go to his dorm instead.

 

_You should leave._

 

In a minute, he needs to splash his face with water, compose himself--

 

_Now. There’s something going on out there._

 

Grimmjow lifts his dripping face from the sink, looking at the door. His eyes go to the space underneath it-- there’s flickering orange light there. Cautiously, disbelieving, Grimmjow reaches out and touches the wood of the door, spreading his fingers out over the surface and pressing his palm flat. It’s warm. Too warm to be from his own hand or even from some kind of heating vent on the other side.

 

_Fire._

 

Grimmjow doesn’t hesitate. Instead of trying the door, he turns and puts his foot through the bathroom window. It’s tiny, and he has to push out all of the little pieces of glass that remain in the frame before he tries forcing his body through the opening. He gets his right arm, shoulder, and head before he hears the bathroom door crack behind him. He feels a curious absence of panic that he knows he doesn’t have time to analyze. Bracing his right hand on the wall outside, he fights to pull and push himself out of the window.

 

It hurts like a bitch, but at some point his other shoulder pops out, and then he’s using both hands and his waist is tiny as hell so it’s more of a matter of catching himself on the ground. He rolls and lays in the grass for a moment, looking back. There are flames billowing out of the window he just came from, along with several others.

 

Grimmjow groans softly and rolls, putting his hands on the ground and pushing himself up. Looks like his choice was made for him. He stumbles into the street, coughing a little as smoke blows into his face. He can’t see because it’s in his eyes and something soft-yet-solid hits him (or maybe he hits it) and instinctively he reaches out to steady himself. He knows what he grabs are shoulders.

 

The smoke clears and--

 

And honey eyes and orange hair and something more like a smile than like panic, considering there’s a fire.

 

“Uh.” Grimmjow manages intelligently.

 

“Hey.” That _voice_.

 

Grimmjow’s head feels light and he can’t tell if it’s the smoke or the guy in front of him, and he can’t let go or step away. His words are getting stuck in his throat, what _is this_ . His heart is pounding again, racing, his breaths aren’t coming like they should, he feels like he can’t _breathe_.

 

“A party, Grimmjow?” The man murmurs to him. “Really?”

 

Grimmjow swallows. “Who _the fuck_ are you?” He forces out, his voice more gravel than he really intended it to be. How does this guy know his name?

 

There’s an expression Grimmjow can’t identify on the man’s face. Hands alight on his waist, making him jump a little. They’re just staring at each other and it’s _weird_ but it’s not, and this guy _knows_ something about him.

 

“Remember your promise to me, Grimm?” Those honey eyes have the fire reflected in them and Grimmjow is breathless.

 

“I remember. I think.” Grimmjow feels helpless against this, whatever it is. “Iba’s retiring. I’m going to be his lieutenant. He approached me with the position last week.” He can’t make himself stop talking. The proposal had been out of fucking nowhere, but Grimmjow would be lying if he said he didn’t have his sights set on that exact spot anyway. “I said yes.”

 

The man smiles. “Then I’ll see you there.”

 

He squeezes Grimmjow’s waist like he doesn’t want to let go but then he does, pulling away from Grimmjow entirely and walking away, passed him, towards the Seireitei. Grimmjow turns, watching him go, wishing he knew what was going on and why he doesn’t feel as upset about this as he’s pretty sure he should.

 

-=-

 

Grimmjow didn’t realize shooting right to lieutenant would mean so much paperwork. Iba certainly does his fair share, and it’s not bad being his subordinate, but Grimmjow really doesn’t enjoy authority. It’s having freedom dangled in front of your eyes and being bound by pesky things like duty. It bothers him.

 

But his new quarters are nice. Larger than his room at the academy, and he has the freedom to decorate it with whatever he wants, nor does he have to share it with anyone. The trouble is, he has no idea what he likes. The shawl Babaa gave him hangs delicately on the wall where it won’t get damaged, and Shoga can usually be found curled up on his pillow while Grimmjow works at his desk by the window.

 

More than ever he’s haunted by honey eyes and orange hair and a _name_ . He’s pretty sure it’s ee-oh-something-something, and he _knows_ it belongs to this guy, but…

 

His dreams are made of white sand and clashing swords, red pillars that stretch to the sky and pain and blood. He dreams of laying in the sand and bleeding slowly, of endless days in a maze of white halls with nothing better to do. He dreams of being alone. He dreams of a park, of arms around his waist, of burning lips on his skin and burning movement inside of him and _oh god he’s gonna be eaten_ but those nights are the ones where he wakes up with a shudder and come all over his own stomach. Grimmjow dreams, and he doesn’t know what to do with all of these dreams--memories?--of another life, filling up inside of him.

 

He doesn’t have anyone to go to with this. Shoga does not speak when Grimmjow tries to talk to him, and meditation… Meditation is its own problem.

 

Grimmjow has never been able to talk to his Zanpakuto. He’s never been able to visualize that inner world that people talk about having. He doesn’t even know its name. It’s just always been there with him. It’s not for lack of trying--when he follows the instructions, all he gets is nothing.

 

_Because you’re looking in the wrong place._

 

And then there’s that. The little voice that gives him opinions and nothing else. He can’t tell if it’s his own or not, it doesn’t sound like anything except his own thinking voice, except it’s not his thoughts. It’s… hard to explain.

 

He decides to try again one sunny day when there’s nothing but boring paperwork to do, pointing his thoughts at himself like the sensei always told the class to do.

 

Nothing.

 

_You’re looking in the wrong place._

 

Grimmjow exhales hard before pointing his thoughts at his sword, as if to attack it.

 

White sand and black skies, a paw and claws slashing towards his face. Grimmjow recoils, surprised, opening his eyes. His Zanpakuto his sitting innocently against his desk. Grimmjow swallows, closes his eyes, and tries again.

 

White sand and black skies, and a panther sitting calmly, staring at him with blue eyes that match his own. It’s like a panther but it’s not, it’s got white and black plates that cover and protect its body, and its teeth sort of stick out of its mouth over its own lips.

 

_At last._

 

Grimmjow swallows.

 

 _Tell me your name,_ he demands.

 

 _Aw, can’t you guess? You know it. You only forgot. We used to be one, and now we are separate. Learn me again, and I’ll learn you. We could be_ kings _together._

 

Grimmjow searches his mind. When it comes to him, the knowledge is a relief, and he’s absolutely sure he’s right.

 

 _Pantera,_ he murmurs in his mind. The sound of it is different, more right, than any of the names of other Zanpakuto that he’s heard. Then again, Grimmjow has always felt more connected to the names for things that make everyone look sideways at him. The names Hollows gave things.

 

 _Yes,_ the voice says with relish, and the panther begins to circle him. _Call me. What are my words?_

 

The words to call it? Grimmjow has to search his memories again, and when he turns up nothing, he forces himself to wait. The knowledge comes to him again, sharply and clearly and it is again a relief.

 

 _Grind,_ he commands.

 

 _YES_.

 

Grimmjow is ejected from the place of white sand and black sky abruptly, and is left staring at his Zan- at Pantera- leaning against his desk. He feels the grin spread over his face again, and there’s a tingling in his limbs.

 

He feels like a part of him has returned that was missing, he feels like he’s _back_.

 

That night, when he sleeps, he dreams. He knows them for what they are, now, as memories.

 

And Grimmjow remembers _everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY I PROMISED CHRISTMAS AND HERE IT IS TWO DAYS LATER AGH  
> This went slower than I thought, it's my bad.
> 
> It was typed on Google Drive so I could access it over the holidays, apologies for formatting being a bit different/weird.
> 
> Also if you can guess what musical I've been listening to you get a cookie.


	5. Resto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's fighting, and memories, and aren't they the same thing when you get down to it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! School started again  
> -I'm actually typing this while sitting in french class hahaaaaaa-  
> But I hope this makes up for the break!
> 
> Thank you all, and enjoy! >w<

Grimmjow picks up another pebble, balancing it on the pad of his thumb and using his fingernail to flick it away from him. It plops satisfyingly into the scummy river before him. He doesn’t know why he’s so angry, really. It didn’t make sense to be angry. Everything had gone exactly according to plan, honestly. Seventh Division’s grounds bordered the Academy’s, where there was a runoff stream that flowed out of the Seireitei entirely. Grimmjow had never noticed it before until he joined Seventh Division. It wasn’t a special place or anything, but it was certainly a private one if you picked the right time of day.

Somewhere in the center of the Seireitei, in a great big meeting room, all of the captains and their lieutenants were there to watch the handing over of power from Tetsuzaemon Iba to Kurosaki Ichigo.

Well, almost all. Grimmjow was here, and had been here since before the sun even came up. He’d felt Ichigo arrive, would know the scent of that reiatsu anywhere. His senses feel dull, now that he knows the difference. He can’t see as well as he used to, or smell or taste or anything. He _had_ a hunter’s senses. Now… Now, he doesn’t know what he has. It makes it all the more pathetic that he has been bested by Ichigo not once but several times.

Remembering everything was not a blessing. It was not the great eye-opening he thought it would be. If he could choose, he would have left all of his memories behind, in the past, where they _fucking_ belong.

Remembering everything was remembering the death of his _fracción._ Remembering was remembering loneliness. In the endless wastes, there had only been him, for so long. His first memory is waking up on sand, his paws sinking into it at first before he learned how to walk lightly, like a hunter. And then it was survival, every day.

Weakness was inexcusable. Weakness, vulnerability, injury, it all amounted to the same thing: death. In all that time, Grimmjow had never been injured. Naturally, from the first moment, it seemed that every other being was duller than he was. Slower, weaker, deserving of being devoured. With every hunt, every meal, he could feel himself getting stronger. Rising above.

He remembers the cold nights, walking endlessly, sleeping on his paws because stopping was death. Every Hollow was different, some could fly and some could dig, and if you stopped you could find death coming for you from either above or below. If you kept moving, you couldn’t be surprised. He remembers the hot days, the sun punishing and relentless. But he’d never felt thirst except for that of another’s blood. He remembers the hunger, constant and persistent.

He remembers meeting Shawlong, and the rest. The memory of taking a bite out of Di Roy provokes a laugh from somewhere deep inside Grimmjow, but it sounds bitter and harsh to his own ears. Shawlong had convinced him to be calm, to work together with the other Adjuchas. Shawlong, Edrad, Yylfordt, Nakeem, Di Roy… Rag tag didn’t even begin to describe them.

Grimmjow was never sure of Shawlong’s motivations. At the beginning, it was clear that Grimmjow was stronger than all of them. Had he hoped for a protector? Someone to chase away those they could not defend themselves against? Shawlong had always been so down-to-earth. He told Grimmjow they all hoped to reach Vasto Lorde, but from the first moment that had been an impossibility for Di Roy, at least.

_Did you know then that it was impossible for you, too?_

Guessing does no good.

Grimmjow remembers meeting Aizen, remembers trying to hunt him. That had been a mistake—Aizen was stronger than all of them put together. Freshly arrived in Hueco Mundo, Aizen had had a plan even then.

And it was Shawlong who made the sacrifice. Shawlong, who despite his ever-calm demeanour was just as hungry as the rest of them. After Grimmjow had taken a bite of each of them, added their power to his own—

_You felt your growth stop, too, don’t lie. I know when you lie._

Shawlong must have seen it as his only chance. So he was willing to take the risk. Grimmjow remembers the last look back before Shawlong tore off his own mask. The scream that came after. He remembers how eager he was—Shawlong was the first, taking the number 11, and he had been so eager to be next. Shawlong had survived and that had been good enough for Grimmjow, had been all the proof he needed.

Tearing off the mask had been hard. He remembers the struggle—should he use his teeth? How would he even do that? He had used his hind legs in the end, rolling onto his back so his belly was to the sky (he remembers the fear, then, at that,) and bracing himself with his tail he’d kicked at his own face with his sharp hind claws. The pain had been too much for Shawlong, who had stopped when he still had a good three-quarters of his face left. Grimmjow had been determined to do better.

He’d torn away his own face until only his jaw was left before the pain was overwhelming.

He remembers lying in the sand, gasping, blood coating his face and making it feel cold and wet, the pain so all-consuming that it even eclipsed the hunger for just a moment.

And then he had stood on weak and shaky legs, legs he was unfamiliar with. He had been taller, too, and hands… Hands had been interesting to figure out. He remembers Aizen’s smile, and his lips as they formed the word _twelve_ , gifting Grimmjow with his first number.

Edrad next, eager to prove his strength. He had done more than Grimmjow had, but that was perhaps because he just grabbed his own fucking face with both hands and ripped in one movement. Grimmjow snorts—Edrad had been sobbing on the sand after that, wailing like a baby. It hadn’t been a laughing matter then, with Grimmjow trying to hide his own ineptness at simply _walking_.

Nakeem, number fourteen. Nakeem, who imitated Shawlong in everything that he did, a simple Gillian when they were all together. He’d never even advanced to Adjuchas. He’d had to have Shawlong tear his mask off for him, bracing one hand underneath it and the other hand on top, cracking it neatly in half. Everything Shawlong had done was neat.

Yylfordt, nervous but brave. Bitter, joking about how _I’ll show Szayel who’s better_ as he braced his horns against a boulder. Delighted to find that he had a pretty face under his mask and disappointed when Szayelapporo managed to rip off more than he did, but always proud that he was older. How Grimmjow had pittied his pettiness.

And Di Roy. Grimmjow sighs. Di Roy. Arrogant, cocky. Embarrassed. He’d never managed to get as much off as the rest of them, and worn the bandages covering the scar Grimmjow gave him for the rest of his life.

They had all taught him something, in the aftermath. As they learned how to fight with swords instead of their bodies, as they learned how to inhabit different bodies. Shawlong had taught him the value of analysis, taught him to have a sharp eye for the subtleties of an opponent in battle. Edrad, honor. Nakeem, a cool head. Yylfordt, vanity. Di Roy, how to enjoy a kill.

Grimmjow remembers long afternoons with Shawlong, who showed him how to fight with a sword, saying it wasn’t too different than what he was used to with his fingers from being an Adjuchas. The lectures he would have to endure during it all. He remembers just sitting while Shawlong explained how Grimmjow’s fingers worked and why they wouldn’t move the way he wanted them to unless he broke his fucking hand to do it. It had been Shawlong who taught him how to walk, holding his elbow, catching him around the waist when he stumbled.

Shawlong was the only one who dared touch him. The only one who obeyed his orders without question, the only one who could get away with talking back without fear of injury and used the advantage sparsely and with respect.

Shawlong had always been the voice of calm reason. Had always given flawless advice. Had always seen the king in Grimmjow, the ability to rise to the top.

He remembers feeling each of their reiatsus being snuffed out, one by one by one, merciless and irreversible.

Grimmjow swallows and finds his throat is tighter than he expected it to be.

He wishes Shawlong were here now. He’d never appreciated his advice before. What would he say now, seeing his king preparing to bow to another? When Grimmjow had never bowed to Aizen, to anyone. Had he ever even been a king? Five subjects hardly made him royalty. He’d always demanded obedience and enforced it with violence when he could, but did that a king make? Grimmjow didn’t know anymore.

_You are weak._

“I didn’t ask you.” He kicks Pantera, which previously had been leaning against the tree Grimmjow was sitting under. It falls, hitting the ground with a sort of satisfying thud.

At least it goes silent, too.

Grimmjow is hiding his reiatsu, and it’s evening before he scoops up Pantera and heads to his rooms. He doesn’t like being out at night, where the sky is black and it makes the ground look blacker and then he’s in some kind of void. At least Hueco Mundo had some contrast.

The sun has lit up his quarters orange, and Shoga greets him at the door, tails waving and expectant. Grimmjow ignores him, going and sitting at his desk instead. He didn’t see anyone in the halls of the Seventh Division’s barracks—they’re probably all out trying to get the attention of their new and legendary Captain.

He wishes it were acceptable to kill them when he was irked.

Shoga jumps up onto the desk, purring and rubbing Grimmjow’s shoulder.

“Shoga…” Grimmjow starts, halfheartedly trying to shove him away.

Shoga doesn’t go, of course, instead butting his forehead up against Grimmjow’s chin. Something in Grimmjow’s chest hurts, and his head feels too heavy to be real. Maybe he’ll just nap here at his desk, and pretend like he didn’t skip breakfast and lunch and dinner.

-=-

There’s a soft knock at his door, and Grimmjow’s head shoots up. The view outside his window is that of deep nighttime, and there’s an oil lamp burning near his bed to illuminate his room. Shoga meows from somewhere around the bed as Grimmjow turns, trying to get his bearings. How long has he been out? Who’s knocking at this goddamn time of night?

He answers anyway. In the Seventh Division, he’s gained a reputation as probably being way more suited to the title of Kenpachi than Vice Captain, but he abides by the rules enough that if someone is being hazed inappropriately or a fight is going too far, someone comes running to nervously knock at his door to get it to stop. It’s happened a few times before, so Grimmjow has absolutely no defenses up beyond exasperation when he opens the door.

Any words he was planning to say fly out of his head the moment he takes in who’s standing there.

Ichigo looks just like he did sixty years ago, just like that same punk seventeen-year-old who’d rolled Grimmjow onto his belly in the grass and taken him with something like warmth and something like kindness and Grimmjow has never known what to do with the feeling that gives him.

“Hey.” Ichigo says softly, his eyes crinkling up. He looks good in the Captain’s robe, which he hasn’t changed at all.

“You said that already.” Grimmjow points out, feeling dumb and unprepared. His anger has melted away and he wishes it hadn’t, wishes he had it now.

“Can I come in?”

Grimmjow steps aside, holding the door open. Ichigo’s eyes alight on Shoga, and he lights up.

“I didn’t know you had a cat.”

“Yeah. I’ve been calling him Shoga.” Grimmjow shuts the door, facing it rather than Ichigo because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he has the option of staring at Ichigo all he wants.

“Shoga?”

“For his fur.”

“Obviously. You could have called me that—Ginger sounds way better than Strawberry. It’s not that much of an improvement, but still… So, Shoga, huh? Nice to meet you.”

“I wouldn’t bother. He hasn’t spoken a word—”

“Nice to finally meet you, too, Kurosaki Ichigo.” Shoga said pleasantly, voice deep and rumbling as he sat grooming a paw.

Grimmjow only hesitates a moment.

“You _asshole_ —get the fuck _out_ of here!” He turns and launches himself across the room, swiping for Shoga, who deftly avoids him.

Laughing lowly, the Nekomata disappears out of Grimmjow’s open window. Grimmjow follows him, angrily pulling it closed behind the furry asshole.

“ _Dick_.” He mutters.

“Have you eaten yet?” Ichigo pipes up from behind him, sounding like he’s smiling and Grimmjow is _helpless_ —

“No, not yet.” He admits, turning.

Ichigo _is_ smiling at him, opening a bag Grimmjow didn’t notice he had and pulling out all kinds of food.

“Eat with me.” Ichigo invites, and Grimmjow is sitting on the bed beside him before he even realizes he’s moved.

They eat in silence. It feels tense and awkward, even though Ichigo is calm as ever and spends the time just taking in Grimmjow’s room.

Finally they’re done, and the debris of their meal is cleaned up, and then they’re just… Standing, facing each other in the middle of Grimmjow’s too-empty room, impersonal because Grimmjow has never really owned anything in his life and he wouldn’t know the first thing about decorating a room anyway—

“Let me look at you.” Ichigo murmurs, his eyes traveling over Grimmjow’s body, and Grimmjow feels open and vulnerable. He has to close his eyes against Ichigo’s scrutiny.

He’s always worn his Shinigami uniform the same way, once he graduated. Any changes to the Academy student uniform was grounds for a demerit, and Grimmjow had refused to give them any reason at all no matter how small to kick him out, so he’d worn it like everyone else had even though the blue parts clashed with his hair and it wasn’t like he could change his hair color. But there was no punishment for wearing his Shinigami uniform a different way, not when he was a Lieutenant.

So he cut the sleeves so they’d fit his arms better instead of being so baggy and sewed them back up, the way Nakeem had taught him as an exercise in practicing how fingers and hands worked. (Shawlong had assigned them both to do it, as they were the only ones who had never had hands, and Grimmjow had resisted as long as he could until he fumbled his sword and nearly chopped off his own fucking leg.) He rolled the newly tailored sleeves up to his elbows, and cut the _shitagi_ and _kosode_ so they were short, coming to just under his shoulder blades. He left them open, exposing his torso. He put a collar on the _shitagi_ , folding it over the shoulders of the _kosode_ and he was left with something very similar if not identical to what he was used to wearing.

In Hueco Mundo, it had had a purpose—the desert was hot, after all—but here it was just because everything else made him uncomfortable. He’d used bandages to bind his stomach, hiding the fact that his Hollow hole no longer existed there, and then wore the rest of the uniform normally.

“I’m never going to get used to seeing you without the mask. And your scars—”

There are fingertips on him, and Grimmjow inhales sharply. He backs up, but Ichigo follows him, until he’s pressed up against a wall and there are hands _all over_ him, exploring, curious, learning again.

“No scars.” Ichigo notes.

“No.” Grimmjow agrees, with a small amount of regret. He wished he could have kept the ones Ichigo gave him.

It was the only thing anyone had ever given him. Everything else was _taketaketake_.

There’s a hand on his stomach, right over where his Hollow hole once was. Ichigo had never tried to put his hand all the way through Grimmjow’s Hollow hole, it would have been disrespectful on the same level as making fun of someone’s dead grandmother, but he was the only person who Grimmjow had allowed anywhere near it in the first place. In this new life, Grimmjow still doesn’t feel awesome about anyone putting their hands on him at all, let alone near his stomach, but Ichigo’s hands are not afraid. He pushes against the soft flesh there with confidence, and Grimmjow feels his knees turn to water and his hips melt like they’ve turned to lava, burning in the best way.

So it takes every ounce of strength he has to grab Ichigo’s wrist and force him back, opening his eyes at last.

Ichigo doesn’t resist, going where Grimmjow leads, but there is confusion in his eyes when he looks up at Grimmjow. Staring at him, Grimmjow doesn’t know why he’s forcing Ichigo away. They’ve waited so long, and Grimmjow for one has been through enough shit to finally deserve to get what he wants, and he _does_ want. But there’s something in him telling him that this is a bad idea right now, that there’s something off about this. Grimmjow’s instincts have never been wrong.

“Stay still.” He commands, and Ichigo drops his hands to his sides and gives him a relaxed smile.

Grimmjow, frowning, steps closer, well into Ichigo’s personal space. He dips his head so his nose is in the crook of Ichigo’s neck, inhaling. Ichigo’s scent is the same as it always has been—something that reminds Grimmjow of sword oil, that vague scent of cloves; something like cinnamon and more like fire that burns Grimmjow’s nose; and…

“Did—where did you get cookies?” Grimmjow asks, pulling back.

“Ah—when everyone was introducing themselves to me, someone gave me cookies and wouldn’t stop until I’d eaten one.” Ichigo laughed, embarrassed.

“Hm.” Was Grimmjow’s only comment. He takes a step back, circling Ichigo slowly.

Ichigo’s posture is the same, still stands like the only ground that exists is where he’s standing, like it’ll always be there. Confident, sure of himself. Grimmjow doesn’t know that he could say the same for himself.

When he circles back to Ichigo’s front, he meets Ichigo’s eyes with his mind made up.

“Fight me.” He demands.

Ichigo’s face is goodnatured confusion. “We don’t have time for sparring, Grimmjow.” He points out. “We’re in leadership positions, with responsibility—”

“If you don’t fight me,” Grimmjow interrupts. “You’ll have to throw me to Central 46.” He forces his voice into a low growl.

He’s analyzed every law Central 46 has set for the Seireitei. Attacking a Captain unprovoked is tantamount to treason, and the penalty is death. Grimmjow grabs Pantera, never far away, and readies.

“Okay, okay! Not here, though, _fuck_.” Ichigo runs a hand through his hair, thinking for a moment before gesturing for Grimmjow to follow. The profanity is grating on Grimmjow’s ears, familiar in the way Ichigo’s annoyed glance is familiar, lets him know he’s gotten under Ichigo’s skin, and the feeling is overwhelmingly satisfying.

Together, they stalk the halls of Seventh Division’s barracks, making it outside to a wide-open field. There’s no one around, and they aren’t stopped. They walk until they’re in the middle of the field. There aren’t really training rooms for this, nothing big enough for a Captain to fight a Lieutenant without restraint. They face each other, and the wind makes the trees and grass whisper. Grimmjow lowers himself into a stance, slowly, letting his muscles guide him from memory. His sandals dig into the soft earth when he launches himself at Ichigo.

They meet in an exchange of blows, hand-to-hand. Grimmjow doesn’t hold back, and neither does Ichigo, and it’s gratifying to find out that they are more or less evenly matched, giving just as good as they get and then some. When it’s clear that hand to hand is never going to provoke an outright win or loss, Grimmjow reaches for Pantera.

They clash in clangs of metal, sparks lighting up the night with the force of their blows. Grimmjow feels giddy elation pushing at the surface of his mind. _This_ is familiar. This is something that has never given him pain, not in the way that matters. Fighting Ichigo is more like coming home than Grimmjow has ever known. Maybe that’s fucked up, maybe their relationship (can it be called that?) should be made up of laughter and soft things, compassion and all that. Maybe it should be like that, but Grimmjow can’t bring himself to be the one to change when _this_ feels so good.

This is going nowhere fast, though, and Grimmjow is in over his head with excitement and the thrill of the fight. It is nothing to back off far enough, to curl his left hand into claws and scrape his nails down the flat of Pantera’s blade.

“ _Grind, Pantera._ ” He doesn’t yell it like he usually would, he’s learned from then.

Grimmjow does not know what the words will do to him now, what calling Pantera will change, but he feels it like putting a glove on, like bandages wrapping down his arms. When the feeling settles, he looks down at himself.

He is wearing gloves. Well, sort of. His hands have turned black up to his elbows, and there are white bone claws tipping his fingers. Grimmjow clenches and unclenches his hands—there is no resistance or restriction of movement. He feels the grin split his face, wide and all-consuming.

He attacks again.

And again.

And again.

He tries to use the abilities he’s learned since becoming a Shinigami, and ones that he remembers how to use from being _Sexta_ , but none of them work quite the same way and Grimmjow can feel their power is weak. Ichigo still doesn’t hold back, and Grimmjow feels full of—of _something_ , he doesn’t know what, something _good_ at having Ichigo’s full attention on him.

So when he lands on his back in the dirt, Ichigo’s sword at his throat, Pantera returning to normal beside him but too far away to reach, Grimmjow doesn’t move. He grins up at Ichigo like an idiot, feeling a sort of rolling in his chest that once would have meant a purr emerging from his throat. In the change from Hollow to Shinigami, something’s changed and he can’t purr anymore.

Nah.

Instead it’s more embarrassing, as if that were even possible.

A soft, high-pitched hum comes out, and Grimmjow can’t even cut it off because Ichigo is still _there_ , looking down at him but not looking down _on_ him, and suddenly it hits Grimmjow like an earthquake, like an explosion—Ichigo is _here_.

Suddenly, he’s aware that they’ve drawn a crowd of Seventh Division members, and he’s able to cut off his humming abruptly, though it was so quiet to begin with that probably nobody but Ichigo heard it anyway. Ichigo puts away his Zanpakuto, reaching out a hand to help Grimmjow up. Grimmjow clasps his forearm, pulling himself up before stooping to scoop up Pantera.

People are clapping, they think it was some kind of display or showcase—Grimmjow doesn’t know how he feels about witnesses. He follows Ichigo back to the building through the crowd like a shadow, silent and subdued. Most of the attention is for Ichigo, anyway. His heart is fucking _pounding_.

They make it back to Ichigo’s quarters and it looks pretty impersonal, honestly, but all things considered Ichigo just moved in today.

Ichigo’s hands on his shoulders, warm and calloused and guiding. Familiar. Grimmjow can’t see, he has no idea where he’s going but he trusts Ichigo. His knees hit something hard on the bottom and soft on top and Ichigo is gently pushing him to keep going, so he stumbles onto it and turns around. Ichigo is still pushing, so Grimmjow lays down, and his heart won’t slow down—

Ichigo lays on the bed beside him, gathering Grimmjow up in his arms. Grimmjow curls his hands into the back of Ichigo’s clothes, fisting in Ichigo’s Captain’s coat. If the front of Ichigo’s coat gets wet, well, it’s Ichigo’s fault anyway.

Grimmjow doesn’t let go until he falls asleep from nothing but aching muscles and exhaustion.

-=-

Ichigo stays awake for a long time, blue hair in his face and it’s kind of annoying, being unable to find a good spot where Grimmjow’s hair doesn’t poke him in the nose or eye, but Ichigo doesn’t move.

He hadn’t been expecting Grimmjow to show up for the ceremony, and being right didn’t bother him. Everyone else had been affronted simply on principle, but Ichigo had laughed it off. Grimmjow is enigmatic and strange, but Ichigo knows at least a few secrets now. Behind the loud demeanor, Grimmjow is sharply intelligent and quick witted. Somewhere under the bloodlust and the violence, there’s a heart of gold. Probably. Ichigo doesn’t actually have anything except suspicions on that particular detail.

One thing he knows, though, is that Grimmjow is, for lack of a better word, needy. He holds onto Ichigo like Ichigo is the only thing that’s real, the only thing he can count on. Grimmjow’s grip hasn’t lessened in sleep.

Ichigo threads his fingers into the hair at the back of Grimmjow’s head, massaging lightly there. Grimmjow is still catlike in his behavior. All day Ichigo’s felt like Grimmjow’s been watching him from afar, too afraid to come closer, and lashing out when Ichigo breached that distance. Grimmjow has always been a wild animal, uncontrollable and unpredictable unless you know what you’re looking for.

Grimmjow mumbles something under his breath, nestling closer, his nose in the hollow of Ichigo’s throat, against his heartbeat. Ichigo holds him tighter, reflecting that as wild as Grimmjow is, Ichigo isn’t really any better himself. He’s killed before, and he’d kill again if it meant keeping Grimmjow right where he was now, safe and assured that he was cared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I am also just along for the ride but I'm 98% sure there's some pain coming for these boys because I can't go too very long without making Grimmjow suffer honestly.


	6. Silencio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kidnapping, an old woman, a rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG ADLHGHEOWH
> 
> Hope you like, anyway. ^^

Ichigo sighs, rubbing his eyes and the back of his neck. He stares sightlessly into the fire, wondering how it all came to this. He’d been out of the room for five minutes, and now...

 

 _This doesn’t suit you, does it?_ He’d asked, smiling then.

 

 _No, not really._ Grimmjow had laughed, long and loud and unselfconscious of exactly how crazy he sounded, lifting the papers he’d been working on. _This bureaucratic shit is really not my thing._

 

 _Oh, your thing?_ Ichigo teased him. It had taken a long time for Grimmjow to pick up on human sayings, but once he’d gotten the hang of them, he used them a lot.

 

 _Yeah._ Grimmjow had fixed him with a warm look, then. The memory makes Ichigo’s heart clench in his chest.

 

At the very least, the situation they were in now made him look back and realize exactly how much Grimmjow had sacrificed to get to this point, and how much he continued to sacrifice, just so that they could at the very least see each other every day. Ichigo can feel Rukia’s eyes on him, piercing and knowing. He doesn’t want to see it, though, so he closes his eyes and turns away from her, looking out at the vast cavern they found themselves in.

 

Ichigo had left for five minutes. Five minutes; which wasn’t to say that he and Grimmjow were together 24/7--they weren’t--but still. Five minutes. When he’d returned, Grimmjow had been gone. No struggle, no mess, just… gone. He’d thought Grimmjow had left as well, but after Grimmjow did not return that night, or the next morning, Ichigo began to get worried. Grimmjow had always had a fickle disposition, but this wasn’t like that. Ichigo had a knack for telling when Grimmjow was in trouble.

 

A rudimentary search turned up the information that no one had seen Grimmjow at all for quite some time. A more in-depth search proved that he was nowhere within the Seireitei, or the Rukongai, or the whole of Soul Society anywhere. Not a hint of reiatsu, no trail, just…

 

Gone.

 

Then came the information from Mayuri and the Science Division that there was some kind of weakness in the barriers between worlds near the Academy, something that they hadn’t noticed because it wasn’t beyond the realm of the usual fluctuations in the Reiatsu that made up the Seireitei. But with Grimmjow missing… It wasn’t hard to put two and two together. It was a week--an agonizingly long time to Ichigo--before they were able to put together some kind of gate that could tear open the weakness safely and keep it stable.

 

In that time, Ichigo petitioned Kyoraku to take a search party personally to look for his lieutenant. It was a hard discussion.

 

“You’re too close to this, Ichigo.” Kyoraku had said, very reasonably.

 

“I’m the only person close enough!” Ichigo had countered, trying not to bang his fists on Kyoraku’s desk. “I am the only person who knows what his reiatsu feels like, down to the littlest detail. Anyone else might mistake it for someone else’s, but I won’t!” He countered. “Grimmjow doesn’t trust anyone here except me anyw--”

 

“That’s the problem, Ichigo.” Kyoraku spoke over him, fixing him with a deceptively hard stare. Ichigo had stiffened, his throat closing.

 

It wasn’t really against the law to have a relationship between the different levels of the chain of command, but it also wasn’t a very encouraged practice, and he could see that Kyoraku definitely had an opinion on it. For all his flirting, even this wasn’t a convention Kyoraku would see broken, and just because Ichigo and Grimmjow kept things behind closed doors and didn’t talk about it in public, it didn’t mean they were free from the judgement of the Captain of the First Division.

 

“You are too close. You can’t maintain focus on this.”

 

“So let me take others with me. Rukia.” Ichigo suggested. Rukia had never been afraid to punch him if he was getting out of line, and certainly wasn’t a stranger to trying to stop him from doing something stupid.

 

Kyoraku seemed to consider it. “You. Rukia. I want you to take Nanao and Hanataro, as well.”

 

Ichigo had not argued. Nanao was going to be Kyoraku’s eyes and ears on the mission, and she could afford to leave her post, being a co-lieutenant, that much was clear. Hanataro was one of the best healers in his division, no matter what the nervous shinigami might say to the contrary. It made sense.

 

That didn’t mean Ichigo had to like it.

 

They’d assembled early that morning to enter the portal. Ichigo had been the first one there, impatient and ready. When Mayuri opened it, he had been the first one through it.

 

The world on the other side was like nothing Ichigo had ever seen. They seemed to have stepped into some kind of large cave, a yawning cavern deeper and higher than any Ichigo had ever even imagined before. The stone was a deep red, and while there were some scraggly dead weeds here and there, for the most part it was dark and barren. The caverns were lit by some kind of yellow glowing fungus that grew on the ceiling, and it was enough to see by that you wouldn’t bump into a wall while walking, but it wasn’t nearly enough to, say, read by.

 

The first thing they’d all done was to fling out their reiatsu awareness, trying to feel for Grimmjow’s aura. It was nowhere to be found, which didn’t mean anything, Ichigo reminded himself. Maybe Grimmjow was hiding it, having escaped from whoever took him. Maybe he hadn’t escaped, and it was being repressed somehow. It didn’t mean he was dead.

 

Ichigo had to keep repeating that to himself. It didn’t mean Grimmjow was dead. It didn’t mean anything except that they would have to look the old-fashioned way, with their eyes.

 

The inhabitants of this place were Yokai, that was clear. Mutated by this land, perhaps, or simply this was their place of origin. There was an Akabeko, which mooed at them from a patch of dead grass but did not approach them when they passed. There was a man, which, when questioned about whether or not he’d seen anyone matching Grimmjow’s description, turned around to reveal he had no face. Ichigo guided the group far away from that one.

 

Some of the yokai were indifferent to the group, uncaring about their passing. Some, like the Shikome, attacked the group and had to be killed. There was once, even, a dog-like yokai that followed the group, panting and wagging its tail innocently every time someone glanced at it. At some point, though, Nanao started to cough and get ill, and the dog had to be chased away.

 

Ichigo turns his stare to the fire again, letting it hypnotise him a little. They’d find Grimmjow. He had to believe that. No matter how long it took.

 

-=-

 

The second week of searching brought them to a small village that seemed to have been carved out of the cave wall. This world was just an endless system of caverns, and it seemed that these few peaceful yokai had banded together for some amount of safety, and found it in numbers. Their children laughed and screamed as they played and chased one another, without fear. It felt like they’d been searching without rest for far too long, and it was Hanataro who suggested they speak with the village elders and try to secure a place to stay here, if only for a few nights.

 

Ichigo couldn’t help but agree, and Rukia was nearly dead on her feet, so after a little bit of asking around they found out where the village elders usually gathered to make decisions, and were told to wait while they were summoned. It was a smaller cave off of the main chamber, its ceiling scorched by the oft-lit fire in the center, and there was some kind of incense in the air.

 

When the elders appeared, there were only two. An old man who had too many eyes and several lizard’s tails, and a woman who looked very young but had enough kitsune tails to let Ichigo know she was much older than she appeared.

 

“We don’t mean to intrude,” Ichigo started. “But we’re looking for our friend. We were wondering if we could rest here before continuing with our journey.”

 

“By all means.” The old man held out a welcoming hand and smiled, his eyes blinking independently of one another. “We are a peaceful village. You are welcome as long as you keep the peace.”

 

“Have you maybe seen our friend? He’s a little taller than Ichigo here.” Rukia asked hopefully. “He has blue hair, a bad temper. He’s a shinigami, like us. Really stands out.”

 

The elders looked at one another, considering, before shaking their heads. “No, we haven’t seen anyone like that.” The kitsune says. Her voice is coy and seductive, but she doesn’t seem like she’s trying to make it that way. “But he could be dead, did you consider that?”

 

“Why would he be dead?” Ichigo asks, on edge.

 

“Well, time is different here.” The kitsune blinks at him like it should be obvious. “I’ve been to the Rukongai before.” She winks at the old man, like they’re sharing a joke. “And the human world. One second in the human world is like an hour in the Rukongai, right? Well two hours in the Rukongai is like…” She counted on her fingers, looking up at the ceiling. “Two hours there is like a year here!” She nodded cheerfully. “No one really ages here, but some of us do like to fight…”

 

Ichigo doesn’t remember making polite farewells. He only remembers being outside, needing the wider space, the “fresh” air.

 

He remembers, years ago, in another life, assuring Grimmjow that he would never leave Grimmjow alone. He would never abandon him.

 

 _As long as I’m here, you never have to worry._ Ichigo remembers pulling his fingers through Grimmjow’s hair, messing it up but loving the purr that came from Grimmjow’s throat as a result.

 

 _What if you’re not always here?_ Grimmjow had asked. _You can’t promise that._

 

 _I can._ Ichigo had said, firmly. _I can promise that._

 

 _I admire that about you._ Grimmjow had told him, voice soft and warm and unguarded. _You stand your ground, Ichigo._

 

 _So do you._ Ichigo had pointed out.

 

 _No._ Grimmjow had smiled ruefully. _No, I destroy everything I have, until even the ground I stand on crumbles._

 

Ichigo thinks of Grimmjow, bleeding out in the sand. Left there to die. At the end of the war with the Quincies. Again and again, left to die. It’s been years for Grimmjow--would he have given up? Cut his loses and tried to make a life for himself here once he realized he couldn’t get back out? Did he even believe rescue was coming for him, anymore?

 

Or was he dead, like these yokai were suggesting? Like the evidence (or, lack thereof, really) said he probably was?

 

Ichigo’s heart clenches, and he tries to remember how to breathe.

 

-=-

 

They ask the villagers, but none of them have seen a tall man with blue hair. Some of them have speculations for them, but the places they talk about don’t make any sense. When the villagers try to explain where these places are, the explanations don’t make any sense either.

 

There are a few villagers they don’t bother asking. The more animalistic ones which cannot speak, for one. The children, also, don’t really seem to have a clue. An old woman, hunched and bent and bandaged like a leper so that only her nose is visible also seems to be a good person to avoid. There’s also a tree that grows at the edge of the village, with fruit that look like upside-down human heads, which freaks out everyone in the group.

 

In the end, after they’ve rested for a few days, Ichigo can’t take being stationary anymore. He leads them on, with warnings ringing in their ears.

 

The elders had wanted them to stay. It was safer, they said. They had to be careful, they said. There was a yokai out there who was crueler than the rest, who didn’t necessarily rule but certainly could get away with doing anything he wanted, simply through fear. A yokai that liked to do things just to watch the chaos unfold, after.

 

Ichigo can’t help but add to his theory. Maybe Grimmjow hadn’t given up at all. Maybe he’d just sunk down to the level he had been at before, destroying everything within reach simply because he could, wanting to rise in vain to the top. He doesn’t want to believe it; he thinks more of Grimmjow than that, but he can’t deny it’s at least a possibility.

 

They roam, searching every crack and crevice that they can make the excuse to check.

 

The dog yokai comes back and has to be chased out again. Ichigo feels bad, because it looks like a sweet animal that just wants some attention, but it makes the group get sick, and Hanataro only brought so many supplies.

 

It’s one such occasion, making camp, where it’s Ichigo’s turn to chase it away again. He runs at it, halfhearted and trying to look more threatening than he really plans on being, when he realizes the dog has led him behind a stone column.

 

The old woman from the village is there. She bends to greet the dog, patting it with a withered hand covered in bandages that shakes violently. She’s covered herself in a shawl, and her bent and hunched form shakes just as bad as her hand. She doesn’t seem to realize Ichigo is there, and he frowns, backing away. All of these Yokai are able to do unpredictable things, and Ichigo isn’t willing to die here. Not when Grimmjow still needs finding.

 

Just as he’s about to go back to camp, the old woman shuffles forward, her head bobbing this way and that, as if she’s trying to look for him. Like she knows he’s there. He swallows, taking another careful step back. She follows, shuffling forward.

 

He gives up and goes back to camp anyway, sure that his friends will have something to say about it, and they can all come up with a plan together.

 

When he gets there, Nanao gasps at the sight of the woman, dropping her bundle of wooden sticks.

 

“What is she doing here?!” she demands in a voice that is probably supposed to be lower than it is.

 

“She followed us. Actually, I think she might have followed the dog, who followed us.” Ichigo grimaces.

 

“The villagers told me about her.” Rukia mumbles, watching as the old woman stops well short of the camp. She’d be staring at them if there weren’t bandages covering her face. “That yokai we were warned about? She escaped from him. He blinded her, deafened her, and muted her, all at once. She can’t communicate at all. They were harboring her, trying to keep her safe.”

 

“That’s horrible.” Ichigo murmurs, looking over his shoulder at the old woman.

 

He doesn’t have the heart to chase her, and nothing bad has happened yet, so they make camp and sleep, taking turns on watch. On Ichigo’s turn, late into the night, the old woman is still there, sitting down now, and unmoving so that she might be a statue. She just sits, facing the fire. Ichigo closes his eyes.

 

A memory of Grimmjow, exhausted, staring into the flame of a candle late at night. Ichigo had come up behind him, gently spreading his hands over Grimmjow’s shoulders. Grimmjow had looked up at him, then, eyes far away and vague.

 

 _I want to hunt, Ichigo._ He’d murmured. _I want to kill. I want to eat._

 

Ichigo had kneaded his neck and shoulders, unable to find the words, then.

 

 _Ichigo, I don’t belong here._ Grimmjow had whispered.

 

 _You do._ Ichigo had murmured.

 

 _No. I only belong wherever you are. For now, that’s here._ Grimmjow had gone back to staring into the fire, until Ichigo had dragged him off to bed.

 

Ichigo swallows the guilt. What had he forced Grimmjow into? No, that wasn’t right. He hadn’t forced Grimmjow into anything. Grimmjow had made the choice, had _asked_ him, a whole other life ago. Ichigo puts his head in his hands and tries to sleep.

 

-=-

 

At some point, Hanataro just stops. In his tracks. Ichigo feels like he’s been clotheslined, but he skids to a halt and looks back, inquisitively. Rukia notices, and Nanao, and they stop too.

 

“What’s up, Hanataro?” Ichigo prompts, when the little Shinigami doesn’t say anything.

 

“I can’t remember how long we’ve been here.” Hanataro says, voice soft but confident.

 

Ichigo tries to think back, to remember. It’s been days, but… A week? Two? ...Maybe even three? He feels a cold like ice water down his spine, and looks to the girls. They also have troubled faces.

 

“We should check in.” Rukia says, and the tone of her voice and the look in her eyes says she knows Ichigo won’t like it. “If we can’t remember, we need to make sure…”

 

Ichigo _doesn’t_ like it, but he also can’t deny that she’s right. He nods shortly. Nanao has been keeping track of where they went and where the portal was, and she easily pulls out the map she’d been making and begins to lay out the route they should take to get back. Route agreed, Ichigo leads back the way they’d come. They pass the little old lady, who stops shuffling after them at an achingly slow pace to turn around and start shuffling after them the other way.

 

Ichigo wishes he could spare a moment to tell her goodbye, to direct her back to the village that harbored her, but he can’t. It’s time to go, and hopefully they can be back very, very soon. Or Grimmjow would have to wait longer. Ichigo couldn’t bear that.

 

 _I’m catching up!_ Grimmjow would yell at him.

 

The games of tag they used to play. For the right to spar, for the right to fuck. The chase had made everything more exhilarating. They hadn’t done it always; sometimes there were quiet nights of making love, or the need to work out anger and frustration with blows. But the nights of the chase were the best. Ichigo can still feel the way Grimmjow would trip him--hooking his foot around Ichigo’s ankle and stopping short, until Ichigo was on the ground and caught and they would work out whatever they had to.

 

Ichigo remembers, and it hurts.

 

Though they’ve been searching for so long, it feels like it takes no time at all to find the portal again, looming before them. In reality, they’ve camped twice since deciding to turn around, and now that he’s faced with the exit, Ichigo turns, unwilling to leave. Grimmjow is still here, somewhere. He knows it. But the cavern with the portal is empty and vast, and Ichigo closes his eyes.

 

There’s a shuffle, cloth scraping stone. Ichigo opens his eyes.

 

The old woman has followed them even here, and the little dog again too. She hobbles forward, and Ichigo frowns. She must have walked all through the nights to catch up with them, and then some.

 

“C’mon, Ichigo.” Nanao urges softly.

 

Ichigo half turns, and then there is a restricting sensation around his waist, and the ground isn’t where he left it anymore.

 

“My little seed!” A high-pitched, shrill, excited voice exclaims.

 

Ichigo twists, struggling, and finds himself face-to-face..s… with a _huge_ yokai. It looked like a tree, maybe with pears, but all of the fruit were human heads. All of them were speaking in tandem, and licking their lips, and Ichigo feels a kind of disgust and a kind of panic rise up in his chest, but he forces it down. The tree has wrapped a vine or root around his waist, and it must have poor eyesight because it has to hold him close and all of the faces squint at him.

 

His friends, below, have launched an attack, but the many vines are more than enough to keep them busy.

 

“You’re not my little seed.” The yokai grumbles, using a deeper voice now, and the effect is wholly unsettling.

 

All of a sudden, the little old woman is there. With a sword. And Ichigo is falling to the ground and thinking _I should have known._

 

They fight. The yokai doesn’t seem to be about to die any time soon, and none of them would know how to kill it even if it were, so one by one they escape through the portal. Ichigo goes last, and before he gets through, he grabs the old woman’s robes and pulls her through as well. It takes more strength than he would have thought for her size.

 

Once through, the portal snaps shut, and Ichigo leans over with his hands on his knees to take a breath. He can feel the reiatsu of a low-level shinigami, running away, probably to alert that they had returned. He can’t really bring himself to care about that at this moment, though.

 

“ _Ichigo you brought her with us?!_ ” Rukia, as expected, is flabbergasted.

 

Ichigo makes a motion for her to hold on and approaches the old woman. Immediately, and with startling accuracy, the old woman points her Zanpakuto at Ichigo’s throat. Ichigo lets it be there for a long moment before gently and steadily pushing it aside with the back of his hand on the flat of the blade. He slides the hand down until he can touch the hilt and carefully ply one of the hands off of it. He wants to leave her the security of having one hand still there, in case she decides she does want to maim him after all.

 

The bandaged hand shakes in his grasp, but he holds it anyway. He brings it up, up, up, to his cheek, and presses the raggedy palm to his cheek. Ichigo lets the fingers trip over his cheekbones, his chin, under his jaw, over his brow, along his nose. The Zanpakuto drops to the ground with a clang, and the other hand comes up to touch his face, skate down his throat. Ichigo does not flinch--these hands have been over his throat many times without killing him before.

 

Instead, Ichigo knocks the hood off of the woman’s head, and picks at a bandage until it comes undone. He begins unwrapping them, as carefully as he can. He takes away the third layer of bandages and a tuft of bright blue hair jumps out. Ichigo tries to hurry.

 

By now the others are watching avidly, and another audience has arrived. Kyoraku, Isane, and Mayuri have all arrived.

 

More and more of Grimmjow's features are revealed, until Ichigo’s got his whole head uncovered. Ichigo wants to hold him, but instead grabs his hand and holds on tight as the relief makes his knees weak.

 

-=-

 

Ichigo leads Grimmjow to Isane’s division and does not stray as she looks him over. He has a few more scars, but no immediate injuries. More pressing, instead, are the runes that cover his eyelids and lips, that trace his hands and his spine, that curl around his ears. Grimmjow cannot see, hear, speak, or even move very well. Isane summons Mayuri, who is mildly familiar with this kind of binding, and who tells Ichigo he’s surprised Grimmjow was able to walk at all such is the strength of the bind. It explains the shaking--Grimmjow had been straining to move.

 

Mayuri says it is a problem easily solved, and Ichigo doesn’t like it but he’ll have to trust him on it.

 

Isane gives Grimmjow an otherwise clean bill of health, and releases him to Ichigo’s care, to be on bed rest until they can figure out the runes. Grimmjow holds on to Ichigo’s elbow, which it becomes apparent is necessary for his balance, and together they walk slowly back to the division’s barracks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have plans for another chapter.
> 
> This one was sitting halfway done since the last update and I decided today was the time to finish it and move the story along. ^^;


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